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POPULAR NOVELS 


BY 

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 


Tempest and Sunshine. 
English Orphans. 
^Homestead on Fie'-side 
V/’Lena Rivers. 
v/VIeadow Brooil^ 

V Dora Deane. 

Cousin Maude. 

Marian Grey. 

Edith Lyle. 

\/Daisy Thornton. 

Chateau d’Or. 

, Queenie Hetherton. 
Bessie’s Fortune. 
Marguerite. K 


vA 


Darkness and Daylight. 
V^Hugh Worthington. 

. Cameron Pride. 

//Rose Mather. 

Ethelyn’s Mistake. 
V/Milbank. 

Edna Browning. 

West Lawn. 

Mildred. 

V'Forrest House. 

Madeline. 

Christmas Stories. 
Gretchen. 

Dr. Hathern’s Daughters. 

(New.) 


“ Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating 
writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she 
has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy 
and affections of her readers, and of hold- 
ing their attention to her pages with 
deep and absorbing interest.” 


Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, Si. 50 each, 
and sent free by mail on /eceipt of price, 

BY 

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher 

SUCCESSOR TO 

G. W. CARLETON & CO., New York. 


Mrs. Hallam's Companion 


AND 


THE SPRING FARM, 


AND OTHER TALES. 


BV , 

t r I IT 


vi 




Mrs. MARY J^IJOLMES, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” “ ’LENA RIVERS,” “ GRETCHEN,” 
“ MARGUERITE,” “ DR. HATHERN’S DAUGHTERS,” 

ETC., ETC. 



G. 


' Vi'WV^ 

NEW YORK: 

IV. Dillingham , Publisher , ; 


MDCCCXCVX. 


3 


Copyright, 1896, by 

Mrs. MARY J. HOLMES. 

[All rights reserved.} 


CONTENTS. 


MRS. HALLAM'S COMPANION 


Chapter Page 

I. The Hallams 9 

II. The Homestead 24 

III. Mrs. Hallam’s Applicants . . . .36 

IV. Mrs. Fred Thurston 40 

V. The Companion 49 

VI. On the Teutonic 58 

VII. Reginald and Phineas Jones . . .67 

VIII. Rex at the Homestead 79 

IX. Rex Makes Discoveries . . . .90 

X. At Aix-les-Bains 95 

XI. Grace Haynes 108 

XII. The Night of the Opera .... 114 

XIII. After the Opera . . . . .122 

XIV. At the Beau-Rivage 13 1 

XV. The Unwelcome Guest . . . -139 

XVI. Tangled Threads 144 

XVII. On the Sea . 149 

XVIII. On Sea and Land 158 

XIX. “ I, Rex, Take Thee, Bertha . . .163 


rsj 


6 


CONTENTS. 


THE SPRING FARM. 

Chapter Page 

I. At the Farm House 169 

II. Where Archie Was 174 

III. Going West . 180 

IV. On the Road 184 

V. Miss Raynor 194 

VI. The School Mistress 199 

VII. At the Cedars 205 

VIII. Max at the Cedars 209 

IX. “Good-Bye, Max ; Good-Bye.” . . . 218 

X. At Last 225 

THE HEPBURN LINE. 

I. My Aunts 235 

II. Doris 246 

III. Grantley Montague and Dorothea . . 254 

IV. Aleck and Thea 268 

V. Doris and the Glory Hole .... 278 

VI. Morton Park 280 

VII. A Soliloquy 291 

VIII. My Cousin Grantley 293 

IX. Grantley and Doris 298 

X. Thea at Morton Park 307 

XI. The Crisis 317 

XII. The Missing Link 3^22 

XIII. The Three Brides 332 

XIV. Two Years Later 336 


CONTENTS, 


7 


MILDRED’S AMBITION. 

Chapter Page 

I. Mildred . . . . • . . . . 339 

II. At Thornton Park ^45 

III. Incidents of Fifteen Years .... 352 

IV. At the Farm House 35^ 

V. The Bride 365 

VI. Mrs. Giles Thornton 374 

VII. Calls at the Park 380 

VIII. Mildred and her Mother . 387 

IX. Gerard and his Father 295 

X. In the Cemetery 399 

XI. What Followed 405 

XII. Love versus Money 409 

XIII. The Will 414 

XIV. Mildred and Hugh 418 

XV. The Denouement 424 

XVI. Sunshine After the Storm . . . . 43 1 

















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MRS. .HALLAM’S COMPANION. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HALLAMS. 

Mrs. Carter Hallam was going to Europe, — going- 
to Aix-les Bains, — partly for the baths, which she hoped 
would lessen her fast-increasing avoirdupois, and partly 
to join her intimate friend, Mrs. Walker Haynes, who 
had urged her coming and had promised to introduce 
her to some of the best people, both English and Ameri- 
can. This attracted Mrs. Hallam more than the baths. 
She was anxious to know the best people, and she did 
know a good many, although her name was not in the 
list of the four hundred. But she meant it should be 
there in the near future, nor did it seem unlikely that it 
might be. There was not so great a distance between the 
four hundred and herself, as she was now, as there had 
been between Mrs. Carter Hallam and little Lucy Brown, 
who used to live with her grandmother in an old yellow 
house in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, and pick berries to 
buy herself a pair of morocco boots. Later on, when 
the grandmother was dead and the yellow house 
sold, Lucy had worked first in a shoe-shop and then in 

[ 9 ] 


10 


MRS. HALLAM S COMPANION. 


a dry-goods store in Worcester, where, attracted by her 
handsome face, Carter Hallam, a thriving grocer, had 
made her his wife and mistress of a pretty little house 
on the west side of the city. As a clerk she had often 
waited upon the West Side ladies, whom she admired 
greatly, fancying she could readily distinguish them 
from the ladies of the East Side. To marry a Hallam 
was a great honor, but to be a West-Sider was a greater, 
and when both came to her she nearly lost her balance, 
although her home was far removed from the aristo-' 
cratic quarters where the old families, the real West- 
Siders, lived. In a way she was one of them, she 
thought, or at least she was no longer a clerk, and she 
began to cut her old acquaintances, while her husband 
laughed at and ridiculed her, wondering what difference 
it made whether one lived on the east Or west side of a 
town. He did not care whether people took him for a 
nabob, or a fresh importation from the wild and woolly 
West ; he w’as just Carter Hallam, a jolly, easy-going 
fellow whom everybody knew and everybody liked. 
He was born on a farm in Leicester, where the Hallams, 
although comparatively poor, were held in high esteem 
as one of the best and oldest families. At twenty-one 
he came into the possession of a few thousand dollars 
left him by an uncle for whom he was named, and then 
he went to the Far West, roughing it with cowboys and 
ranchmen, and investing his money in a gold-mine in 
Montana and in lands still farther west. Then he re- 
turned to Worcester, bought a small grocery, married 
Lucy Brown, and lived quietly for a few years, when 
suddenly one day there flashed across the wires the 
news that his mine had proved one of the richest in 
Montana, and his lands were worth many times what he 


'The hallaMs. 


11 


gave for them. He was a millionaire, with property 
constantly rising in value, and Worcester could no 
longer hold his ambitious wife. 

It was too small a place for her, she .said, for every- 
body knew everybody else’s business and history, and, 
no matter how much she was worth, somebody was sure 
to taunt her with having worked in a shoe-shop, if, 
indeed, she did not hear that she had once picked ber- 
ries to buy herself some shoes. They must go away 
from the old life, if they wanted to be anybody. They 
must travel and see the world, and get cultivated, and 
know what to talk about with their equals. 

So they sold the house and the grocery and traveled 
east and west, north and south, and finally went to Eu- 
rope, where they stayed two or three years, seeing nearly 
everything there was to be seen, and learning a great 
deal about ruins and statuary and pictures, in which 
Mrs. Hallam thought herself a connoisseur, although 
she occasionally got the Sistine Chapel and the Sistine 
Madonna badly mixed, and talked of the Paul Belvedere, 
a copy of which she bought at an enormous price. 
Whep they returned to America Mr. Hallam was a 
three times millionaire, for all his speculations had been 
successful and his mine was still yielding its annual 
harvest of gold. A handsome house on Fifth Avenue 
in New York was bought and furnished in the most ap- 
proved style, and then Mrs. Hallam began to consider 
the best means of getting into society. She already 
knew a good many New York people whom she had 
met abroad, and whose acquaintance it was desirable to 
continue. But she soon found that acquaintances made 
in Paris or Rome or on the Nile were not as cordial 
when met at home, and she was beginning to feel dis- 


i 


12 Mrs. hallam’s companion. 

couraged, when chance threw in her way Mrs. Walkei* 
Haynes, who, with the bluest of blood and the 
smallest of purses, knew nearly every one worth know- 
ing, and ; it \X 7 as hinted, would for a quid pro quo open 
many fashionable doors to aspiring applicants who, 
without her aid, would probably stay outside forever. 

The daughter and grand-daughter and cousin of gov- 
ernors and senators and judges, with a quiet assumption 
of superiority which was seldom offensive to those 
whom she wished to conciliate, she was a power in so- 
ciety, and more quoted and courted than any woman in 
her set. To be noticed by Mrs. Walker Haynes was 
usually a guarantee of success, and Mrs. Hallam was 
greatly surprised when one morning a handsome coupe 
stopped before her door and a moment after her maid 
brought her Mrs. Walker Haynes’s card. She knew all 
about Mrs. Walker Haynes and what she was capable 
of doing, and in a flutter of excitement she went down 
to meet her. Mrs. Walker Haynes, who never took 
people up if there was anything doubtful in their ante- 
cedents, knew all about Mrs. Hallam, even to the shoe- 
shop and the clerkship. But she knew, too, that she 
was perfectly respectable, with no taint whatever upon 
her character, and that she was anxious to get into so- 
ciety. As it chanced, Mrs. Haynes’s funds were low, 
for business was dull, as there were fewer human moths 
than usual hovering around the social candle, and when 
the ladies of the church which both she and Mrs. Hal- 
lam attended met to devise ways and means for raising 
money for some new charity, she spoke of Mrs. Hallam 
and offered to call upon her for a subscription, if the 
ladies wished it. They did wish it, and the next day 
found Mrs. Haynes waiting in Mrs. Hallam’s drawing- 


THE HALLAMS. 


13 


room for the appearance of its mistress, her quick-see- 
ing eyes taking in every detail in its furnishing, and 
deciding on the whole that it was very good. 

“ Some one has taste, — the upholsterer and decorator, 
probably,” she thought, as Mrs. Hallam came in, nerv- 
ous and flurried, but at once put at ease by her visitor's 
gracious and friendly manner. 

After a few general topics and the mention of a 
mutual friend whom Mrs. Hallam had met in Cairo, 
Mrs. Haynes came directly to the object of her visit, 
apologizing first for the liberty she was taking, and 
adding : 

“ But now that you are one of us in the church, I 
thought you might like to help us, and we need it so 
much.” 

Mrs. Hallam was not naturally generous where noth- 
ing was to be gained, but Mrs. Haynes's manner, and 
her “ now you are one of us,” made her so in this in- 
stance, and taking the paper she wrote her name for 
two hundred dollars, which was nearly one-fourth of the 
desired sum. There was a gleam of humor as well as 
of surprise in Mrs. Haynes’s eyes as she read the amount, 
but she was profuse in her thanks and expressions of 
gratitude, and, promising to call very soon socially, she 
took her leave with a feeling that it would pay to take 
up Mrs. Hallam, who was really more lady-like and 
better educated than many whom she had launched 
upon the sea of fashion. With Mrs. Walker Haynes 
and several millions behind her, progress was easy for 
Mrs. Hallam, and within a year she was “ quite in the 
swim,” she said to her husband, who laughed at her 
as he had done in Worcester, and called Mrs. Haynes a 
fraud who knew what she was about. But he gave her 


14 


MRS. IIALLAm’s COMP ANIOnT 


all the money she wanted, and rather enjoyed seeing 
her “ hob-a-nob with the big bugs,” as he expressed it. 
Nothing, however, could change him, and he remained 
the same unostentatious, popular man he had always 
been up to the day of his death, which occurred about 
three years before our story opens. 

At that time there was living with him his nephew, 
the son of his only brother, Jack. Reginald, — or Rex 
as he was familiarly called, — was a young man of 
twenty-six, with exceptionally good habits, and a few 
days before his uncle died he said to him : 

“ I can trust you, Rex. You have lived with me since 
you were fourteen, and have never once failed me. The 
Hallams are all honest people, and you are half Hallam. 
I have made you independent by my will, and I want 
you to stay with your aunt and look after her affairs. 
She is as good a woman as ever lived, but a little off on 
fashion and fol-de-rol. Keep her as level as you can.” 

This Rex had tried to do, rather successfully, too, 
except when Mrs. Walker Haynes’s influence was in 
the ascendant, when he usually succumbed to circum- 
stances and allowed his aunt to do as she pleased. Mrs. 
Haynes, who had profited greatly in a pecuniary way 
from her acquaintance with Mrs. Hallam, was now in 
Europe, and had written her friend to join her at Aix- 
les-Bains, which she said was a charming place, full of 
titled people both English and French, and she had the 
entree to the very best circles. She further added that 
it was desirable for a lady traveling without a male 
escort to have a companion besides a maid and courier. 
The companion was to be found in America, the courier 
in London, and the maid in Paris ; “ after which,” she 
wrote, “ you will travel tout-a-fait en pri?icesse. The en 


THE HALLAMS. 


15 


princesse appealed to Mrs. Hallam at once as something 
I altogether applicable to Mrs. Carter Hallam of New 
York. She was a great lady now ; Sturbridge and the 
old yellow house and the berries and the shoe-shop 
were more than thirty years in the past, and so covered 
| over with gold that it seemed impossible to uncover 
them ; nor had any one tried, so far as she knew. The 
Hallams as a family had been highly respected both in 
Worcester and in Leicester, and she often spoke of 
them, but never of the Browns, or of the old grand- 
mother, and she was glad she had no near relatives to in- 
; trude themselves upon her and make her ashamed. She 
was very fond and very proud of Reginald, who was to 
her like a son, and who with the integrity and common 
sense of the Hallams had also inherited the innate re- 
finement and kindly courtesy of his mother, a Bostonian 
and the daughter of a clergyman. As a rule she con- 
sulted him about everything, and after she received 
Mrs. Haynes’s letter she showed it to him and asked his 
advice in the matter of a companion. 

“ I think she would be a nuisance and frightfully in 
your way at times, but if fyfrs. Haynes says you must 
have one, it’s all right, so go ahead,” Rex replied, and 
' his aunt continued : 

“ But how am I to find what I want ? I am so easily 
imposed upon, and I will not have one from the city. 

I vShe would expect too much and make herself too famil- 
r. I must h-ave one from the country.” 

‘ Advertise, then, and they’ll come round you like 
es around honey,” Rex said, and to this suggestion his 
aunt at once acceded, asking him to write the advertise- 
ment, which she dictated, with so many conditions and 
requirements that Rex exclaimed, “ Hold on there. 


16 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


You will insist next that they subscribe to the 
Thirty-Nine Articles, besides believing in foreordination 
and everything in the Westminster Catechism. You 
are demanding impossibilities and giving too little in 
return. Three hundred dollars for perfection ! I should 
say offer five hundred. ‘ The higher-priced the better ’ 
is Mrs. Walker Haynes’s motto, and I am sure she will 
think it far more tony to have an expensive appendage 
than a cheap one. The girl will earn her money, too, 
or I’m mistaken ; for Mrs. Haynes is sure to share her 
services with you, as she does everything else.” 

He spoke laughingly, but sarcastically, for he per- 
fectly understood Mrs. Walker Haynes, whom his out- 
spoken uncle had called “ a sponge and a schemer, who 
knew how to feather her nest.” Privately Rex thought 
the same, but he did not often express these views to 
his aunt, who at last consented to the five hundred dol- 
lars, and Rex wrote the advertisement, whic*h was as 
follows : 

“ Wanted, 

“ A companion for a lady who is going abroad. One 
from the country, between twenty and twenty-five, pre- 
ferred. She must be a good accountant, a good reader, 
and a good seamstress. She must also have a sufficient 
knowledge of French to understand the language and 
make herself understood. To such a young lady five 
hundred dollars a year will be given, and all expenses 
paid. Address, 

“ Mrs. Carter Hallam, i 

“ No. — Fifth Avenue, New York/ 

When Rex read this to his aunt, she said : 

“ Yes, that will do ; but don’t you think it just as well 
to say young person instead oi young lady ? ' 


THE HALLAMS. 


17 


“ No, I don’t,” Rex answered, promptly. “ You want 
a lady, and not a person , as you understand the word, 
and I wouldn’t begin by insulting her.” 

So the “ lady ” was allowed to stand, and then, with- 
out his aunt’s knowledge, Rex a$ded : 

“ Those applying will please send their photographs.” 

“ I should like to see the look of astonishment on 
aunt’s face when the pictures come pouring in. There 
will be scores of them, the offer is so good,” Rex 
thought, as he folded the advertisement and left the 
house. 

That night, when dinner was over, he said to his 
aunt : “ I have a project in mind which I wish to tell 
you about.” 

Mrs. Hallam gave a little shrug of annoyance. Her 
husband had been full of projects, most of which she 
had disapproved, as she probably should this of Rex, 
who continued : 

“ I am thinking of buying a place in the country, — 
the real country, I mean, — where the houses are old- 
fashioned and far apart, and there are woods and ponds 
and brooks and things.” 

“ And pray what would you do with such a place ?” 
Mrs. Hallam asked. 

Rex replied, “ I’d make it into a fancy farm and fill it 
with blooded stock, hunting-horses, and dogs. I’d keep 
the old house intact so far as architecture is concerned, 
and fit it up as a kind of bachelor’s hall, where I can 
have a lot of fellows in the summer and fall, and hunt 
and fish and have a glorious time. Ladies will not be 
excluded, of course, and when you are fagged out with 
Saratoga and Newport I shall invite you, and possibly 
Mrs. Haynes and Grace, down to see the fox-hunts I 


18 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


mean to have, just as they do in the Genesee Valley. 
Won’t it be fun ?” 

Rex was eloquent on the subject of his fancy farm. 
He was very fond of the country, although he really 
knew but little about it, as he was born in New York, 
and had lived there all his life with the exception of two 
years spent at the South with his mother’s brother and 
four years at Yale. His aunt, on the contrary, detested 
the country, with its woods, and ponds, and brooks, and 
old-fashioned houses, and she felt very little interest in 
Rex’s fancy farm and fox-hunts, which she looked upon 
as wholly visionary. She asked him, however, where 
the farm was, and he replied : 

“You see, Marks, who is in the office with me, has a 
client who owns a mortgage on some old homestead 
among the hills in Massachusetts. This mortgage, 
which has changed hands two or three times and been 
renewed once or twice, comes due in October, and 
Marks says there is not much probability that the old 
man, — I believe he is quite old, — can pay it, and the 
place will be sold at auction. I can, of course, wait and 
bid it off cheap, as farms are not in great demand in 
that vicinity ; but I don’t like to do that. I’d rather 
buy it outright, giving the old fellow more than it is 
worth rather than less. Marks says it is a rambling old 
house, with three or four gables, and stands on a hill- 
-side with a fine view of the surrounding country. The 
woods are full of pleasant drives, and ponds where the 
white lilies grow and where I can fish and have some 
small boats.” 

“ But where is it ? In what town, I mean ?” Mrs. 
Hdllam asked, with a slight tremor in her voice, which, 
however, Rex did not notice as he answered ; 


THE HALLAMS. 


19 


“ I don’t remember where Marks’s client said it was, 
blit I have his letter. Let me see.” And, taking the 
letter from his pocket, he glanced at it a moment, and 
then said, “ It is in Leicester, and not more than five or 
six miles from the city of Worcester and Lake Quin- 
sigamond, where I mean to have a yacht and call it the 
Lucy Hallam for you. Why, auntie, it has just occurred 
to me that you once lived in Worcester, and Uncle Hal- 
lam, too, and that he and father were born in Leicester. 
Were you ever there, — at the house where father was 
born, I mean ? But of course you have been.” 

Rex had risen to his feet and stood leaning on the 
mantel and looking at his aunt with an eager, expectant 
expression on his face. She was pale to her lips as she 
replied : 

“ Yes, I was there just after I was married. Your 
uncle drove me out one afternoon to see the place. 
Strangers were living there then, for his father and 
mother were dead. He was as country mad as you are, 
and actually went down upon his knees before the old 
well-sweep and bucket.” 

“ I don’t blame him. I believe I’d do the same,” Rex 
replied, and then went on questioning her rapidly. 
“ What was the house like ? Had it a big chimney in 
the centre ?” 

Mrs. Hallam said it had. 

“ Wide fireplaces ?” 

“ Rather wide,— yes.” 

“ Kitchen fireplace, with a crane ?” 

“ I don’t know, but most likely.” 

“ Little window-panes, and deep window-seats?” 

“ I think so.” 

“ Big iron door-latches instead of knobs ?” 


20 


MRS. hallam’s companion. 


“ Yes, and a brass knocker.” 

“ Slanting roof, or high ?” 

“ It was a high gabled roof, — three or four gables, and 
must have been rather pretentious when it was new. 

“ Rex,” — and Mrs. Hallam’s voice trembled percept- 
ibly, — “ the gables and the situation overlooking the 
valley make me think that the place you have in view 
is possibly your father’s old home.” 

“By Jove,” Rex exclaimed, “ wouldn’t that be jolly ! 
I believe I’d give a thousand dollars extra for the sake 
of having the old homestead for my own. I wonder 
who the old chap is who lives there. I mean to go 
down and see for myself as soon as I return from 
Chicago and we get the lawsuit off our hands which is 
taking all Marks’s time and mine.” 

Mrs. Hallam did not say what she thought, for she 
knew there was not much use in opposing Rex, but in 
her heart she did not approve of bringing the long- 
buried past up to the present, which was so different. 
The Homestead was well enough, and Leicester was 
well enough, for Hallam had been an honored name in 
the neighborhood, and Rex would be honored, too, as a 
scion of the family ; but it was too near Worcester and 
the shoe-shop and the store and the people who had 
known her as a working-girl, and who would be sure to 
renew the acquaintance if she were to go there. She 
had no relatives to trouble her, unless it were a certain 
Phineas Jones, who was so far removed that she could 
scarcely call him a relative. But if he were living he 
would certainly find her if she ventured near him, and 
cousin her, as he used to do in Worcester, where he was 
continually calling upon her after her marriage and re- 
minding her of spelling-schools and singing-schools and 


THE UALLAMS. 


21 

circuses which he said he had attended with her. How 
distasteful it all was, and how she shrank from every- 
thing pertaining to her early life, which seemed so far 
away that she sometimes half persuaded herself it had 
never been ! 

And yet her talk with Rex about the old Homestead 
on the hill had stirred her strangely, and that night, 
long after her usual hour for retiring, she sat by her 
window looking out upon the great city, whose many 
lights, shining like stars through the fog and rain, she 
scarcely saw at all. Her thoughts had gone back thirty 
years to an October day just after her return from her 
wedding-trip to Niagara, when her husband had driven 
her into the country to visit his old home. How happy 
he had been, and how vividly she could recall the 
expression on his face when he caught sight of the red 
gables and the well-sweep where she told Reginald he 
had gone down upon his knees. There had been a 
similar expression on Rex’s face that evening when he 
talked of his fancy farm, and Rex was in appearance 
much like what her handsome young husband had been 
that lovely autumn day, when a purple haze was rest- 
ing on the hills and the air was soft and warm as 
summer. He had taken her first to the woods and 
shown her where he and his brother Jack had set their 
traps for the woodchucks and snared the partridges in 
the fall and hunted for the trailing arbutus and the 
sassafras in the spring ; then to the old cider-mill at the 
end of the lane, and to the hill where they had their 
slide in winter, and to the barn, where they had a swing, 
and to the brook in the orchard, where they had a 
water-wheel ; then to the well, where he drew up the 
bucket, and, poising it upon the curb, stooped to drink 


Mrs. hallam’s companion. 


22 

from it, asking her to do the same and see if she ever 
quaffed a sweeter draught ; but she was afraid of 
wetting her dress, and had drawn back, saying she was 
not thirsty. Strangers occupied the house, but permis- 
sion was given them to go over it, and he had taken her 
through all the rooms, showing her where he and Jack 
and Annie were born, and where the latter had died 
when a little child of eight ; then to the garret, where 
they used to spread the hickory-nuts and butternuts to 
dry, and down to the cellar, where the apples and cider 
were stored. He was like a school-boy in his eagerness 
to explain everything, while she was bored to death and 
heard with dismay his proposition to drive two or three 
miles farther to the Greenville cemetery, where the 
Hallams for many generations back had been buried. 
There was a host of them, and some of the head-stones 
were sunken and mouldy with age and half fallen down, 
while the lettering upon them was almost illegible. 

“ I wonder whose this is ?” he said, as he went down 
upon the ground to decipher the date of the oldest one. 
“ I can’t make it out, except that it is seventeen hun- 
dred and something. He must have been an old 
settler,” he continued, as he arose and brushed a patch 
of dirt from his trousers with his silk handkerchief. 
Then, glancing at her as she stood listlessly leaning 
against a stone, he said, “ Why, Lucy, you look tired. 
Are you ?” 

“ No, not very,” she answered, a little pettishly ; 
“ but I don’t think it very exhilarating business for a 
bride to be visiting the graves of her husband’s an- 
cestors.” 

He did not hunt for any more dates ajter that, but, 
gathering a few wild flowers growing in the tall grass. 


the hallams. 


23 


he laid them upon his mother’s grave and Annie’s, and, 
going out to the carriage standing by the gate, drove 
back to Worcester through a long stretch of Woods, 
where the road was lined on either side with sumachs 
and berry-bushes and clumps of bitter-sweet, and there 
was no sign of life except when a blackbird flew from 
one tree to another, or a squirrel showed its bushy tail 
upon the wall. He thought it delightful, and said that 
it was the pleasantest drive in the neighborhood and 
one which he had often taken with Jack when they 
were boys ; but she thought it horribly lonesome and 
poky, and was glad when they struck the pavement of 
the town. 

“ Carter always liked the country,” she said to herself 
when her reverie came to an end, and she left her seat 
by the window ; “ and Rex is just like him, and will 
buy that place if he can, and I shall have to go there as 
hostess and be called upon by a lot of old women in 
sun-bonnets and blanket shawls, who will call me Lucy 
Ann and say, ‘ You remember me, don’t you ? I was 
Mary Jane Smith ; I worked in the shoe-shop with you 
years ago.’ And Phineas Jones will turn up, with his 
cousining and dreadful reminiscences. Ah me, what a 
pity one could not bo born without antecedents !” 


mks. hallam’s COMPANION* 


24 


CHAPTER II. 

THE HOMESTEAD. 

It stood at the end of a grastey avenue or lane a little 
distance from the electric road between Worcester and 
Spencer, its outside chimneys covered with woodbine 
and its sharp gables distinctly visible as the cars wound 
up the steep Leicester hill. Just what its age was no 
one knew exactly. Relic-hunters who revel in antiqui- 
ties put it at one hundred and fifty. But the oldest in- 
habitant in the town, who was an authority for every- 
thing ancient, said that when he was a small boy it was 
comparatively new, and considered very fine on account 
of its gables and brass knocker, and, as he was ninety- 
five or six, the house was probably over a hundred. 
It was built by a retired sea-captain from Boston, and 
after his death it changed hands several times until it 
was bought by the Hallams, who lived there so long 
and were so highly esteemed that it came to bear their 
name, and was known as the Hallam Homestead. After 
the death of Carter Hallam’s father it was occupied by 
different parties, and finally became the property of a 
Mr. Leighton, who rather late in life had married a girl 
from Georgia, where he had been for a time a teacher. 
Naturally scholarly and fond of books, he would have 
preferred teaching, but his young wife, accustomed 
to plantation life, said she should be happier in the 
country, and so he bought the Homestead and com- 
menced farming, with very little knowledge of what 
ought to be done and very little means with which to 


'THE HOMESTEAD. 


25 


do it. Under such circumstances he naturally grew 
poorer every year, while his wife’s artistic tastes did not 
help the matter. Remembering her father’s plantation 
with its handsome grounds and gardens, she instituted 
numerous changes in and about the house, which made 
it more attractive, but did not add to its value. The 
big chimney was taken down and others built upon 
the outside, after the Southern style. A wide hall was 
put through the centre where the chimney had been ; 
a broad double piazza was built in front, while the 
ground was terraced down to the orchard below, where 
a rustic bridge was thrown across the little brook where 
Carter and Jack Hallam had built their water-wheel. 
Other changes the ambitious little Georgian was con- 
templating, when she died suddenly and was carried 
back to sleep under her native pines, leaving her hus- 
band utterly crushed at his loss, with the care of two 
little girls, Dorcas and Bertha, and a mortgage of two 
thousand dollars upon his farm. For some years he 
scrambled on as best he could with hired help, giving 
all his leisure time to educating and training his daugh- 
ters, who were as unlike each other as two sisters w r ell 
could be. Dorcas, the elder, was fair and blue-eyed, 
and round and short and matter-of-fact, caring more 
for the farm and the house than for books, w r hile 
Bertha was just the opposite, and, with her soft brown 
hair, bright eyes, brilliant complexion, and graceful, 
slender figure, was the exact counterpart of her beau- 
tiful Southern mother when she first came to the Home- 
stead ; but otherwise she was like her father, caring 
more for books than for the details of every-day life. 

“ Dorcas is to be housekeeper, and I the wage-earner, 
to help pay off the mortgage which troubles father so 


26 


MRS. hallam’s companion. 


much,” she said, and when she was through school she 
became book-keeper for the firm of Swartz & Co., of 
Boston, with a salary of four hundred dollars a year 
Dorcas, who was two years older, remained at home r 
housekeeper. And a very thrifty one she made, see' 
to everything and doing everything, from making ! 
ter to making beds, for she kept no help. The mo 
thus saved was put carefully by towards paying i 
mortgage coming due in October. By the closest econ- 
omy it had been reduced from two thousand to one 
thousand, and both Dorcas and Bertha were straining 
every nerve to increase the fund which was to liquidate 
the debt. 

It was not very often that Bertha indulged in the 
luxury of coming home, for even that expense was 
something, and every dollar helped. But on the Sat- 
urday following the appearance of Mrs. Hallam’s 
advertisement in the New York Herald she was coming 
to spend Sunday for the first time in several weeks. 
These visits were great events at the Homestead, and 
Dorcas was up as soon as the first robin chirped in his 
nest in the big apple-tree which shaded the rear of the 
house and was now odorous and beautiful with its clus- 
ters of pink-and-white blossoms. There was churning to 
do that morning, and butter to get off to market, be- 
sides the usual Saturday’s cleaning and baking, which 
included all Bertha’s favorite dishes. There was 
Bertha’s room to be gone over with broom and duster, 
and all the vases and handleless pitchers to be filled, 
with daffies and tulips and great bunches of apple- 
blossoms and a clump or two of the trailing arbutus 
which had lingered late in the woods. But Dorcas’s 
work was one of love ; if she were tired she scarcely 


The! homestead. 


2 ? 


thought of it at all, and kept steadily on until every- 
thing was done. In her afternoon gown and white 
apron she sat down to rest awhile on the piazza over- 
looking the valley, thinking as she did so what a lovely 
place it was, with its large, sunny rooms, wide hall, and 
fine view, and how dreadful it would be to lose it. 

“ Five hundred dollars more we must have, and where 
it is to come from I do not know. Bertha always says 
something will turn up, but I am not so hopeful,” she 
said, sadly. Then, glancing at the clock, she saw that 
it was nearly time for the car which would bring her 
sister from the Worcester station. “ I’ll go out to the 
cross-road and meet her,” she thought, just as she heard 
the sharp clang of the bell and saw the trolley-pole as 
it came up the hill. A moment more, and Bertha 
alighted and came rapidly towards her. 

“ You dear old Dor, I’m so glad to see you and be 
home again,” Bertha said, giving up her satchel and 
umbrella and putting her arm caressingly around 
Dorcas’s neck as she walked, for she was much the 
taller of the two. 

It was a lovely May afternoon, and the place was at 
its best in the warm sunlight, with the fresh green 
grass and the early flowers and the apple orchard full 
of blossoms which filled the air with perfume. 

“ Oh, this is delightful, and it is so good to get away 
from that close office and breathe this pure air,” Bertha 
said, as she went from room to room, and then out 
upon the piazza, where she stood taking in deep inhala- 
tions and seeming to Dorcas to grow brighter and 
fresher with each one. “ Where is father ?” she asked 
at last. 

“ Here, daughter,” was answered, as Mr. Leighton, 


Mrs. NalLam s companion. 


as 


who had been to the village, came through a rear 
door. 

He was a tall, spare man, with snowy hair and a 
stoop in his shoulders, which told of many years of 
hard work. But the refinement in his manner and the 
gentleness in his face were indicative of good breeding, 
and a life somewhat different from that which he now 
led. 

Bertha was at his side in a moment, and had him 
down in a rocking-chair, and was sitting on an arm of 
it, brushing the thin hair back from his forehead, while 
she looked anxiously into his face, which wore a more 
troubled expression than usual, although he evidently 
tried to hide it. 

“ What is it, father ? Are you very tired ?” she asked, 
at last, and he replied ; 

“ No, daughter, not very ; and if I were the sight of 
you would rest me.” 

Catching sight of the corner of an envelope in his 
vest pocket, with a woman’s quick intuition, she guessed 
that it had something to do with his sadness. 

“You have a letter. Is there anything in it about 
that hateful mortgage ?” she said. 

’ “ It is all about the mortgage. There’s a way to get 

rid of it,” he answered, while his voice trembled, and 
something in his eyes, as he looked into Bertha’s, made 
her shiver a little ; but she kissed him lovingly, and 
said very low : 

“ Yes, father. I know there is a way,” her lips quiv- 
ering as she said it, and a lump rising in her throat as 
if she were smothering. 

“ Will you read the letter ?” he asked, and she an- 
swered : 


THE HOMESTEAD. 


29 


“ Not now ; let us have supper first. I am nearly 
famished, and long- to get at Dor’s rolls and broiled 
chicken, which I smelled before I left the car at the 
cross-roads.” 

She was very gay all through the supper, although a 
close observer might h'ave seen a cloud cross her bright 
face occasionally, and a look of pain and preoccupation 
in her eyes ; but she laughed and chatted merrily, 
asking about the neighbors and the farm, and when 
supper was over helped Dorcas with her dishes and the 
evening work, sang snatches of the last opera, and told 
her sister about the new bell skirt just coming into 
fashion, and how she could cut over her old ones like 
it. When everything was done she seemed to nerve 
herself to some great effort, and, going to her father 
said : 

“Now for the letter. From whom is it ?” 

“ Gorham, the man who holds the mortgage,” Mr. 
Leighton replied. 

“ Oh-h, Gorham !” and Bertha’s voice was full of in- 
tense relief. “ I thought perhaps it was but no 

matter, that will come later. Let us hear what Mr. 
Gorham has to say. He cannot foreclose till October, 
anyhow.” 

“ And not then, if we d^ what he proposes. This is 
it,” Mr. Leighton said, as he began to read the letter, 
which was as follows : 


“ Brooklyn, N. Y., May — , 18 — . 

“ Mr. Leighton : 

“ Dear Sir, — A gentleman in New York wishes to 
purchase a farm in the country, where he can spend a 
part of the summer and autumn, fishing and fox hunt- 
ing and so on. From what he has heard of your place 


30 


MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION". 


and the woods around it, he thinks it will suit him ex- 
actly, and in the course of a few weeks proposes to go 
out and see it. As he has ample means, he will un- 
doubtedly pay you a good price, cash down, and that 
will relieve you of all trouble with the mortgage. I 
still think I must have my money in October, as I have 
promised it elsewhere. 

“ Very truly, 

“John Gorham.” 

“ Well ?” Mr. Leighton said, as he finished reading the 
letter, and looked inquiringly at his daughters. 

Bertha, who was very pale, was the first to speak. 
“ Do you want to leave the old home ?” she asked, and 
her father replied, in a choking voice, “ No, oh, no. I 
have lived here twenty-seven years, and know every 
rock and tree and shrub, and love them all. I brought 
your mother here a bride and a slip of a girl like you, 
who are so much like her that sometimes when I see 
you flitting around and hear your voice I think for a 
moment she has come back to me again. You were 
both born here. Your mother died here, and here I 
want to die. But what is the use of prolonging the 
struggle ? I have raked and scraped and saved in 
every possible way to pay the debt contracted so long 
ago, the interest of which has eaten up all my profits, 
and I have got within five hundred dollars of it, but do 
not see how I can get any further. I may sell a few 
apples and some hay, but I’ll never borrow another 
dollar, and if this New York chap offers a good price 
we’d better sell. Dorcas and I can rent a few rooms 
somewhere in Boston, maybe, and we shall all be to- 
gether till I die, which, please God, will not be very 


THE HOMESTEAD. 


31 


His face was white, with a tired, discouraged look 
upon it pitiful to see, while Dorcas, who cried easily, 
was sobbing aloud. But Bertha’s eyes were round and 
bright and dry, and there was a ring in her voice as 
she said, “ You will not die, and you will not sell the 
place. Horses and dogs and fox-hunts, indeed ! I’d 
like to see that New-Yorker plunging through the 
fields and farms with his horses and hounds, for that is 
what fox-hunting means. He would be mobbed in no 
time. Who is he, I wonder? I should like to meet 
him and give him a piece of my mind.” 

She was getting excited, and her cheeks were scarlet 
as she kissed her father again and said, “ Write and tell 
that New-Yorker to stay where he is, and take his foxes 
to some other farm. He cannot have ours, nor any one 
else. Micawber-like, I believe something will turn up ; 
I am sure of it ; only give me time.” 

Then, rising from her chair, she went swiftly out into 
the twilight, and, crossing the road, ran down the ter- 
race to a bit of broken wall, where she sat down and 
watched the night gathering on the distant hills and 
over the woods, and fought the battle which more than 
one unselfish woman has fought, — a battle between in- 
clination and what seemed to be duty. If she chose, 
she could save the farm with a word and make her 
father’s last days free from care. There was a hand- 
some house in Boston of which she might be mistress 
any day, with plenty of money at her command to do 
with as she pleased. But the owner was old compared 
to herself, forty at least, and growing bald ; he called 
her Berthy, and was not at all like the ideal she had in 
her mind of the man whom she could love, — who was 
really more like one who might hunt foxes and ride hi$ 


32 


MRS. HALLAM S COMPANION. 


horses through the fields, while she rode by his side, 
than like the commonplace Mr. Sinclair, who had asked 
her twice to be his wife. At her last refusal only a few 
days ago he had said he should not give her up yet, but 
should write her father for his co-operation, and it was 
from him she feared the New York letter had come \ 
when she saw it in her father’s pocket. She knew he 
was honorable and upright and would be kind and gen- 
erous to her and her family, but she had dreamed of a 
different love, and she could not listen to his suit unless 
it were to save the old home for her father and Dorcas. 

For a time she sat weighing in the balance her love 
for them and her love for herself, while darkness deep- 
ened around her and the air grew heavy with the scent 
of the apple-blossoms and the grove of pine-trees not 
far away ; yet she was no nearer a decision than when 
she first sat down. It was strange that in the midst of 
her intense thinking, the baying of hounds, the tramp 
of horses’ feet, and the shout of many voices should 
ring in her ears so distinctly that once, as some bushes 
stirred near her, she turned, half expecting to see the 
hunted fox fleeing for his life, and, with an impulse to 
save hitn from his pursuers, put out both her hands. 

“ This is a queer sort of hallucination, and it comes 
from that New York letter,” she thought, just as from 
under a cloud where it had been hidden the new moon 
sailed out to the right of her. Bertha was not super- 
stitious, but, like many others, she clung to some of the 
traditions of her childhood, and the new moon seen 
over the right shoulder was one of them. She always 
framed a wish when she saw it, and she did so now, 
involuntarily repeating the words she had so often used 
when a child : 


THE HOMESTEAD. 


33 


“ New moon, new moon, listen to me, 

And grant the boon I ask of thee,” 

and then, almost as seriously as if it were a prayer, she 
wished that something might occur to keep the home 
for her father and herself from Mr. Sinclair. 

“ I don’t believe much in the new moon, it has cheated 
me so often ; but I do believe in presentiments, and I 
have one that something will turn up. I’ll wait awhile 
and see,” she said, as the silvery crescent was lost again 
under a cloud. Beginning to feel a little chilly, she 
went back to the house, where she found her father 
reading his evening paper. 

This reminded her of a New York Herald she had 
bought on the car of a little newsboy, whose ragged 
coat and pleasant face had decided her to refuse the 
chocolates offered her by a larger boy and take the 
paper instead. It was lying on the table, where she had 
put it when she first came in. Taking it up, she sat down 
and opened it. Glancing from page to page, she finally 
reached the advertisements, and her eye fell upon that 
of Mrs. Hallam. 

“ Oh, father, Dorcas, I told you something would turn 
up, and there has ! Listen !” and she read the adver- 
tisement aloud. “ The very thing I most desired has 
come. I have always wanted to go to Europe, but 
never thought I could, on account of the expense, and 
here it is, all paid, and five hundred dollars besides. 
That will save the place. I did not wish the new moon 
for nothing. Something has turned up.” 

“ But, Bertha,” said the more practical Dorcas, “what 
reason have you to think you will get the situation ? 


34 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


There are probably more than five hundred applicants 
for it, — one for each dollar.” 

“ I know I shall. I feel it as I have felt other things 
which have come to me. Theosophic presentiments I 
call them.” 

Dorcas went on : “ And if it does come, I don’t see 
how it will help the mortgage due in October. You 
will not get your pay in advance, and possibly not until 
the end of the year.” 

“ I shall borrow the money and give my note,” 
Bertha answered, promptly. “ Anybody will trust me. 
Swartz & Co. will, anyway, knowing that I shall come 
back and work it out if Mrs. Hallam fails me. By the 
way, that is the name of the people who lived here years 
ago. Perhaps Mrs. Carter belongs to the family. Do 
you know where they are, father ?” 

Mr. Leighton said he did not. He thought, however, 
they were all dead, while Dorcas asked, “If you are 
willing to borrow money of Swartz & Co., why don’t 
you try Cousin Louie, and pay her in installments ?” 

“ Cousin Louie !” Bertha repeated. “ That would be 
borrowing of her proud husband, Fred Thurston, who, 
since I have been a bread-winner, never sees me in the 
street if he can help it. I’d take in washing before I’d 
ask a favor of him. My heart is set upon Europe, if 
Mrs. Hallam will have me, and you do not oppose me 
too strongly.” 

“ But I must oppose you,” her father said ; and then 
followed a long and earnest discussion between Mr. 
Leighton, Dorcas, and Bertha, the result of which was 
that Bertha was to wait a few days and consider the 
matter before writing to Mrs. Hallam. 

That night, however, after her father had retired, she 


THE HOMESTEAD. 


35 


dashed off a rough draught of what she meant to say 
and submitted it to Dorcas for approval. It was as 
follows : 

“ Mrs. Hallam : 

“ Madam, — I have seen your advertisement for a com- 
panion, and shall be glad of the situation. My name is 
Bertha Leighton. I am twenty-two years old, and was 
graduated at the Charlestown Seminary three years 
ago. I am called a good reader, and ought to be a good 
accountant, as for two years I have been bookkeeper 
in the firm of Swartz & Co., Boston. I am not very 
handy with my needle, for want of practice, but can 
soon learn. While in school I took lessons in French 
of a native teacher, who complimented my pronuncia- 
tion and quickness to comprehend. Consequently I 
think I shall find no difficulty in understanding the 
language after a little and making myself understood. 
I enclose my photograph, which flatters me somewhat. 
My address is 

“ Bertha Leighton, 

“ No. — Derring St., Boston, Mass.” 

“ I think it covers the whole business,” Bertha said 
to Dorcas, who objected to one point. “ The photo- 
graph does not flatter you,” she said, while Bertha 
insisted that it did, as it represented a much more 
stylish-looking young woman than Mrs. Carter Hallam’s 
companion ought to be. “ I wonder what sort of 
woman she is? I somehow fancy she is a snob,” she 
said ; “ but, snob me all she pleases, she cannot keep 
me from seeing Europe, and I don’t believe she will try 
to cheat me out of my wages.” 


36 


MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION, 


CHAPTER III. 

MRS. HALLAM’S APPLICANTS. 

Several days after Mrs. Hal lam’s advertisement ap- 
peared in the papers, Reginald, who had been away on 
business, returned, and found his aunt in her room 
struggling frantically with piles of letters and photo- 
graphs and with a very worried and excited look on her 
face. 

“ Oh, Rex,” she cried, as he came in, “ I am so glad 
you have come, for I am nearly wild. Only think ! 
seventy applicants, and as many photographs ! Whal 
possessed them to send their pictures ?” 

Rex kept his own counsel, but gave a low whistle as 
he glanced at the pile which filled the table. 

“ Got enough for an album, haven’t you ? How do 
they look as a whole ?” he asked. 

“ I don’t know, and I don’t care. Such a time as I 
have had reading their letters, and such recommenda- 
tions as most of them give of themselves, telling me 
what reverses of fortune they have suffered, what 
church they belong to, and how long they have taught 
in Sunday-school, and all that, as if I cared. But I have 
decided which to choose ; her letter came this morning, 
with one other, — the last of the lot, I trust. I like her 
because she writes so plainly and sensibly and seems 
so truthful. She says she is not a good seamstress 
and that her picture flatters her, while most of the 
others say their pictures are not good. Then she is so 
respectful and simply addresses me as‘ Madam,’ while 


MRS. HALLAM S APPLICANTS. 


37 


all the others dear me. If there is anything I like, it is 
respect in a servant.” 

“ Thunder, auntie ! you don’t call your companion a 
servant, do you ?” Rex exclaimed, but his aunt only re- 
plied by passing him Bertha’s letter. “ She writes well. 
How does she look ?” he asked. 

“ Here she is.” And his aunt gave him the photo- 
graph of a short, sleepy-looking girl, with little or no 
expression in her face or eyes, and an unmistakable 
second-class air generally. 

“ Oh, horrors !” Rex exclaimed. “ This girl never 
wrote that letter. Why, she simpers and squints and is 
positively ugly. There must be some mistake, and you 
have mixed things dreadfully.” 

“ No, I haven’t,” Mrs. Hallam persisted. “ I was 
very careful to keep the photographs and letters to- 
gether as they came. This is Bertha Leighton’s, sure, 
and she says it flatters her.” 

“ What must the original be !” Rex groaned. 

His aunt continued, “ I’d rather she’d be plain than 
good-looking. I don’t want her attracting attention 
and looking in the glass half the time. Mrs. Haynes 
always said, ‘ Get plain girls by all means, in prefer- 
ence to pretty ones with airs and hangers-on.’ ” 

“ All right, if Mrs. Haynes says so,” Rex answered, 
with a shrug of his shoulders, as he put down the photo- 
graph of the girl he called Squint-Eye, and began care- 
lessly to look at the others. 

“ Oh-h !” he said, catching up Bertha’s picture. “ This 
is something like it. By Jove, she’s a stunner. Why 
don’t you take her ? What splendid eyes she has, and 
how she carries herself !” 

“ Read her letter,” his aunt said, handing him a note 


38 


Mrs. hallam’s companion. 


in which, among other things, the writer, who gave her 
name as Rose Arabella Jefferson, and claimed relation- 
ship with Thomas Jefferson, Joe Jefferson and Jefferson 
Davis, said she was a member in good standing of the 
First Baptist Church, and spelled Baptist with two b ’s. 
There were also other mistakes in orthography, besides 
some in grammar, and Rex dropped it in disgust, but 
held fast to the photograph, whose piquant face, bright, 
laughing eyes, and graceful poise of head and shoulders 
attracted him greatly. 

“Rose Arabella Jefferson,” he began, “blood rela- 
tion of Joe Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson, and Jefferson 
Davis, and member in good standing in the First Bap- 
tist Church, spelled with a b in the middle, you never 
wrote that letter, I know ; and if you did, your blue 
blood ought to atone for a few lapses in grammar and 
spelling. I am sure Mrs. Walker Haynes would think 
so. Take her, auntie, and run the risk. She is from 
the country, where you said your companion must hail 
from, while Squint-Eye is from Boston, with no ances- 
try, no religion, and probably the embodiment of clubs 
and societies and leagues and women’s rights and 
Christian Science and the Lord knows what. Take 
Rose Arabella.” 

But Mrs. Hallam was firm. Rose Arabella was quite 
too good-looking, and Boston was country compared with 
New York. “ Squint-Eye ” was her choice, provided her 
employers spoke well of her ; and she asked Rex to 
write to Boston and make inquiries of Swartz & Co., 
concerning Miss Leighton. 

“ Not if I know myself,” Rex answered. “ I will do 
everything reasonable, but I draw the line on turning 
detective and prying into any girl’s character. 


MRS. hallam’s APPLICANTS. 30 

He was firm on this point, and Mrs. Hallam wrote 
herself to Swartz & Co., and then proceeded to tear up 
and burn the numerous letters and photographs filling 
her table. Rose Arabella Jefferson, however, was not 
among them, for she, with other pretty girls, some 
personal friends and some strangers, was adorning 
Rex’s looking-glass, where it was greatly admired by 
the housemaid as Mr. Reginald’s latest fancy. 

A few days later Mrs. Hallam said to Rex, “ I have 
heard from Swartz & Co., and they speak in the high- 
est terms of Miss Leighton. I wish you would write 
for me and tell her I have decided to take her, and that 
she is to come to me on Friday, June — , as the Teutonic 
sails the next morning.” 

Reginald did as he was requested, thinking the while 
how much he would rather be writing to Rose Ara- 
bella, Babtist and all, than to Bertha Leighton. But 
there was no help for it ; Bertha was his aunt’s choice, 
and was to be her companion instead of his, he reflected, 
as he directed the letter, which he posted on his way 
down town. The next day he started for the West on 
business for the law firm, promising his aunt that if 
possible he would return in time to see her off ; “and 
then,” he added, “ I am going to Leicester to look after 
my fancy farm.” 


40 


MRS. HALLAM^S COMPANION. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MRS. FRED THURSTON. 

Bertha waited anxiously for an answer to her letter ; 
when it did not come she grew very nervous and rest- 
less, and began to lose faith in the new moon and her 
theosophical presentiments, as she called her convic- 
tions of what was coming to pass. A feeling of dread 
began also to haunt her lest, after all, the man with the 
bald head, who called her Berthy, might be the only 
alternative to save the homestead from the auctioneer’s 
hammer. But the letter came at last and changed her 
whole future. There was an interview with her em- 
ployers, who, having received Mrs. Hallam’s letter of 
inquiry, were not surprised. Although sorry to part 
with her, they readily agreed to advance whatever 
money should be needed in October, without other 
security than her note, which she was to leave with her 
father. 

There was another interview with Mr. Sinclair, who 
at its close had a very sorry look on his face and a sus- 
picion of suppressed tears in his voice as he said, “ It is 
hard to give you up, and I could have made you so 
happy, and your father, too. Good-bye, and God bless 
you. Mrs. Thurston will be disappointed. Her heart 
was quite set upon having you for a neighbor, as you 
would be if you were my wife. Good-bye.” 

The Mrs. Thurston alluded to was Bertha’s cousin 
Louie, from the South, who, four years before had spent 
part of a summer at the Homestead. She had then 


MRS. FfcEt) lUtiRSTOtt. 


41 


gone to Newport, where she captured Fred Thurston, a 
Boston millionaire, who made love to her hotly for one 
month, married her the next, swore at her the next, and 
jin a quiet but decided manner had tyrannized over and 
bullied her ever since. But he gave her all the money 
she wanted, and, as that was the principal thing for 
which she married him, she bore her lot bravely, be- 
came in time a butterfly of fashion, and laughed and 
danced and dressed, and went to lunches and teas and re- 
ceptions and dinners and balls, taking stimulants to keep 
her up before she went, and bromide, or chloral, or sul- 
fonal, to make her sleep when she came home. But all 
this told upon her at last, and after four years of it she 
began to droop, with a consciousness that something 
was sapping her strength and stealing all her vitality. 
“ Nervous prostration,” the physician called it, recom- 
mending a change of air and scene, and, as a trip to 
Europe had long been contemplated by Mr. Thurston, 
he had finally decided upon a summer in Switzerland, 
and was to sail some time in July. Mrs. Thurston was 
very fond of her relatives at the Homestead, and espe- 
cially of Bertha, who when she was first married was a 
pupil in Charlestown Seminary and spent nearly every 
Sunday with her. After a while, however, and for no 
reason whatever except that on one or two occasions he 
had shown his frightful temper before her, Mr. Thurs- 
ton conceived a dislike for Bertha and forbade Louie’s 
inviting her so often to his house, saying he did not 
marry her poor relations. This put an end to any close 
intimacy between the cousins, and although Bertha 
called occasionally she seldom met Louie’s husband, who, 
after she entered the employment of Swartz & Co., rarely 
recognized her in the street. Bread-winners were far 


4 2 


MRS. HALLAM*S COMPANiOlf. 


beneath his notice, and Bertha was a sore point between 
him and his wife, who loved her cousin with the devotion 
of a sister and often wrote, begging her to come, if only 
for an hour. 

But Bertha was too proud to trespass where the mas- 
ter did not want her, and it was many weeks since they 
had met. She must go now and say good-bye. And 
after Mr. Sinclair left her she walked along Common- 
wealth Avenue to her cousin’s elegant house, which 
stood side by side with one equally handsome, of which 
she had just refused to be mistress. But she scarcely 
glanced at it, or, if she did, it was with no feeling of re- 
gret as she ran up the steps and rang the bell. 

Mrs. Thurston was at home and alone, the servant 
said, and Bertha, who went up unannounced, found her 
in her pleasant morning room, lying on a couch in the 
midst of a pile of cushions, with a very tired look upon 
her lovely face. 

“ Oh, Bertha,” she exclaimed, springing up with out- 
stretched hands, as her cousin came in, “ I am so glad 
to see you ! Where have you kept yourself so long ? 
And when are you coming to be my neighbor ? I saw 
Mr. Sinclair last week, and he still had hopes.” 

Bertha replied by telling s what the reader already, 
knows, and adding that she had come to say good-bye, 
as she was to sail in two weeks. 

“ Oh, how could you refuse him, and he so kind and 
good, and so fond of you ?” Louie said. 

Bertha, between whom and her cousin there were no 
domestic secrets, replied : 

“ Because I do not love him, and never can, good and 
kind as I know him to be. With your experience, 
would you advise me to marry for money ?” 


Mrs. Fred thurston. 


43 


Instantly a shadow came over Louie’s [face, and she 
hesitated a little before she answered : 

“ Yes, and no ; all depends upon the man, and 
whether you loved some one else. If you knew he 
would swear at you, and call you names, and storm be- 
fore the servants, and throw things, — not at you, per- 
haps, but at the side of the house, — I should say no, 
decidedly ; but if he were kind, and good, and generous, 
like Charlie Sinclair, I should say yes. I did so want 
you for my neighbor. Can’t you reconsider ? Who is 
Mrs. Hallam, I wonder ? I know some Hallams, or a 
Hallam, — Reginald. He lives in New York, and it 
seems to me his aunt’s name is Mrs. Carter Hallam. 
Let me tell you about him. I feel like talking of the 
old life in Florida, which seems so long ago.” 

She was reclining again among the cushions, with one 
arm under her head, a far-away look in her eyes, and a 
tone in her voice as if she were talking to herself rather 
than to Bertha. 

“ You know my father lived in Florida,” she began, 
“ not far from Tallahassee, and your mother lived over 
the line in Georgia. Our place was called Magnolia 
Grove, and there were oleanders and yellow jasmine 
and Cherokee roses everywhere. Thismorning when I 
was so tired and felt that life was not worth the living, I 
fancied I was in my old home again, and I smelled the 
orange-blossoms and saw the magnolias which bordered 
the avenue to our house, fifty or more, in full bloom, 
and Rex and I were playing under them. His uncle’s 
plantation joined ours, and when his mother died in 
Boston he came to live with her brother at Grassy 
Spring. He was twelve and I was nine, and I had never 
played with any boy before except the negroes, and we 


44 Mrs. hallam’s companion. 

were so fond of each other. He called me his little 
sweetheart, and said he was going to marry me when 
he was older. When he was fourteen, his uncle on his 
father’s side, a Mr. Hallam, from New York, sent for 
him, and he went away, promising to come back again 
when he was a man. We w r rote to each other a few 
times, just boy and girl letters, you know. He called 
me Dear Louie and I called him Dear Rex, and then, I 
hardly know why, that chapter of my life closed, never 
to be reopened. Grandfather, who owned Magnolia 
Grove, lost nearly everything during the war, so that 
father, who took the place after him, was comparatively 
poor, and when he died we were poorer still, mother 
and I, and had to sell the plantation and move to Tal- 
lahassee, where we kept boarders, — people from the 
North, mostly, who came there for the winter. I was 
sixteen then, and I tried to help mother all I could. I 
dusted the rooms, and washed the glass and china, and 
did a lot of things I never thought I’d have to do. 
When I was eighteen Rex Hallam came to Jacksonville 
and ran over to see us. If he had been handsome as a 
boy of fourteen, he was still handsomer as a man of 
twenty-one, with what in a woman would be called a 
sweet graciousness of manner which won all hearts to 
him ; but as he is a man I will drop the sweet and say 
that he was kind alike to everybody, old and young, 
rich and poor, and had the peculiar gift of making 
every woman think she was especially pleasing to him, 
whether she were married or single, pretty or other- 
wise. He stopped with us a week, and because I was 
so proud and rebellious against our changed circum- 
stances, and so ashamed to have him find me dusting 
and washing dishes, I was cold and stiff towards him. 


MRS. FRED THUR8T0N. 


45 


and our old relations were not altogether resumed, 
although he was very kind. Sometimes for fun he 
helped me dust, and once he wiped the dishes for me 
and broke a china teapot, and then he went away and I 
never saw him again till last summer, when I met him 
at Saratoga. Fred, who was with him in college, intro- 
duced us to each other, supposing we were strangers. 
You ought to have seen the look of surprise on Rex’s 
face when Fred said, ‘ This is my wife.’ 

“ ‘Why, Louie,’ he exclaimed, ‘ I don’t need an intro- 
duction to you then to my husband, ‘ We are old 
friends, Louie and I and we told him of our early 
acquaintance. 

“ For a wonder, Fred did not seem a bit jealous of 
him, although savage if another man looked at me. 
Nor had he any cause, for Rex’s manner was just like a 
brother’s, but oh, such a brother ! and I was so happy 
the two weeks he was there. We drove and rode and 
danced and talked together, and never but once did he 
refer to the past. Then, in his deep, musical voice, the 
most musical I ever head in a man, he said, ‘ I thought 
you were going to wait for me,’ and I answered, ‘ I did 
wait, and you never came.’ 

u That was all ; but the night before he went away 
he was in our room and asked for my photograph, 
which was lying upon the table. He had quite a col- 
lection, he said, and would like to add mine to it, and I 
gave it to him. Fred knew it and was willing, but since 
then, when he is in one of his moods, he taunts me 
with it, and says he knew I was in love with Rex all the 
time, — that he saw it in my face, and that Rex saw it, 
too, and despised me for it while pretending to admire 
me, and because he knew Rex despised me and he could 


46 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


trust him, he allowed me full liberty just to see how 
far I would go and not compromise myself. I do not 
believe it of Rex : he never despised any woman ; but 
it is hard to hear such things, and sometimes when Fred 
is worse than usual and I have borne all I can bear, I 
go away and cry, with an intense longing for some- 
thing different, which might perhaps have come to me 
if I had waited, and I hear Rex’s boyish voice just as it 
sounded under the magnolias in Florida, where we 
played together and pelted each other with the white 
petals strewing the ground. 

“I am not false to Fred in telling this to you, who 
know about my domestic life, which, after all, has 
some sunshine in it. Fred is not always cross. Every 
one has a good and a bad side, a Jekyll and Hyde, you 
know, and if Fred has more Hyde than Jekyll, it is not 
his fault, perhaps. I try him in many ways. He says 
I am a fool, and that I only care for his money, and if 
he gives me all I want I ought to be satisfied. Just now 
he is very good, — so good, in fact, that I wonder if he 
isn’t going to die. I believe he thinks I am, I am so 
weak and tired. I have not told you, have I, that we, too, 
are going to Europe before long ? Switzerland is our 
objective point, but if I can I will persuade Fred to go 
to Aix, where you will be. That will be jolly. I won- 
der if your Mrs. Hallam can be Rex’s aunt.” 

“ Did you ever see her ?” Bertha asked, and Louie re- 
plied : 

“ Only in the distance. She was in Saratoga with 
him, but at another hotel. I heard she was a very swell 
woman with piles of money, and that when young she 
had made shoes and worked in a factory, or some- 
thing.” 


MRS. FRED THURSTON. 


47 


“ How shocking !” Bertha said, laughingly, and Louie 
rejoined : 

“ Don’t be sarcastic. You know I don’t care what 
she used to do. Why should I, when I have dusted and 
washed dishes myself, and waited on a lot of Northern 
boarders, with my proud Southern blood in hot rebel- 
lion against it ? If Mrs. Hallam made shoes or cloth, 
what does it matter, so long as she is rich now and in 
the best society ? She is no blood relation to Rex, who 
is a gentleman by birth and nature both. I hope Mrs. 
Carter is his aunt, for then }^ou will see him ; and if 
you do, tell him I am your cousin, but not how wretched 
I am. He saw a little in Saratoga, but not much, for 
Fred was very guarded. Hark ! I believe I hear him 
coming.” 

There was a bright flush on her cheeks as she started 
up and began to smooth the folds of her dress and to 
arrange her hair. 

“ Fred does not like to see me tumbled,” she said, just 
as the portiere was drawn aside and her husband en- 
tered the room. 

He was a tall and rather fine-looking man of thirty, 
with large, fierce black eyes and an expression on his 
face and about his mouth indicative of an indomitable 
will and a temper hard to meet. He had come in, he 
said, to take Louie for a drive, as the day was fine and 
the air would do her good ; and he was so gracious to 
Bertha that she felt sure the Jekyll mood was in the 
ascendant. He asked her if she was still with Swartz 
& Co., and listened with some interest while Louie told 
him of her engagement with Mrs. Carter Hallam, and 
when she asked if that lady was Rex’s aunt, he replied 


MR8. HALLAM’S COMPANION. 


43 

that she was, adding that Rex’s uncle had adopted him 
as a son and had left a large fortune. 

Then, turning to Bertha, he said, “ I congratulate you 
on your prospective acquaintance with Rex Hallam. 
He is very susceptible to female charms, and quite 
indiscriminate in his attentions. Every woman, old or 
young, is apt to think he is in love with her.” 

He spoke sarcastically, with a meaning look at his 
wife, whose face was scarlet. Bertha was angry, and, 
with a proud inclination of her head, said to him : 

“ It is not likely that I shall see much of Mr. Regi- 
nald Hallam. Why should I, when I am only his 
aunt’s hired companion, and have few charms to attract 
him ?” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” Fred said, struck as he had 
never been before with Bertha’s beauty, as she stood 
confronting him. 

She was a magnificent-looking girl, who, given a 
chance, would throw Louie quite in the shade, he 
thought, and under the fascination of her beauty he 
became more gracious than ever, and asked her to drive 
with them and return to lunch. 

“Oh, do,” Louie said. “It is ages since you were 
here.” 

But Bertha declined, as she had shopping to do, and 
in the afternoon was going home to stay until it was 
time to report herself to Mrs. Hallam. Then, bidding 
them good-bye, she left the house and went rapidly . 
down the avenue. 


THE COMPANION. 


49 


CHAPTER V. 

THE COMPANION. 

Bertha kept up very bravely when she said good-bye 
to her father and Dorcas and started alone for New 
York ; but there was a horrid sense of loneliness and 
homesickness in her heart when at about six in the 
afternoon she rang the bell of No. — Fifth Avenue, 
looking in her sailor hat and tailor-made gown and 
Eton jacket of dark blue serge more like the daughter 
of the house than like a hired companion. Peters, the 
colored man who opened the door, mistook her for an 
acquaintance, and was very deferential in his manner, 
while he waited for her card. By mistake her cards 
were in her trunk, and she said to him, “ Tell Mrs. 
Hallam that Miss Leighton is here. She is expecting 
me.” 

Mrs. Hallam’s servants usually managed to know the 
most of their mistress’s business, for, although she pro- 
fessed to keep them at a distance, she was at times 
quite confidential, and they all knew that a Miss Leigh- 
ton was to accompany her abroad as a companion. So 
when Peters heard the name he changed his intention 
to usher her into the reception-room, and, seating her 
in the hall, went for a maid, who took her to a room on 
the fourth floor back and told her that Mrs. Hallam had 
just gone in to dinner with some friends and would not 
be at liberty to see her for two or three hours. 

“ But she is expecting you,” she said, “ and has given 
orders that you can have your dinner served here, or 


50 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


if you choose, you can dine with Mrs. Flagg, the house- 
keeper, in her room in the front basement. I should go 
there, if I were you. You’ll find it pleasanter and 
cooler than up here under the roof.” 

Bertha preferred the housekeeper’s room, to which 
she was taken by the maid. Mrs. Flagg was a kind- 
hearted, friendly woman, who, with the quick instincts 
of her class, recognized Bertha as a lady and treated 
her accordingly. She had lived with the Hallams 
many years, and, with a natural pride in the family, 
talked a good deal of her mistress’s wealth and position, 
but more of Mr. Reginald, who had a pleasant word for 
everybody, high or low, rich or poor. 

“ Mrs. Hallam is not exactly that way,” she said, “and 
sometimes snubs folks beneath her ; but I’ve heard Mr. 
Reginald tell her that civil words don’t cost anything, 
and the higher up you are and the surer of yourself the 
better you can afford to be polite to every one ; that a 
gold piece is none the less gold because there is a lot of 
copper pennies in the purse with it, nor a real lady any 
the less a lad.v because she is kind of chummy with her 
inferiors. He’s great on comparisons.” 

As Bertha made no comment, she continued, “ He’s 
Mrs. Hallam’s nephew, or rather her husband’s, but 
the same as her son adding that she was sorry he was 
not at home, as she’d like Miss Leighton to see him. 

When dinner was over she offered to take Bertha 
back to her room, and as they passed an open door on 
t ie third floor she stopped a moment and said, “ This is 
Mr. Reginald’s room. Would you like to go in ?” 

Bertha did not care particularly about it, but as Mrs. 
Flagg stepped inside, she followed her. Just then some 
one from the hall called to Mrs, Flagg, and, excusing 


THE COMPANION. 


51 


herself for a moment, she went out, leaving Bertha 
alone. It was a luxuriously furnished apartment, with 
signs of masculine ownership everywhere, but what 
attracted Bertha most was a large mirror which, in a 
Florentine frame, covered the entire chimney above the 
mantel and was ornamented with photographs on all its 
four sides. There were photographs of personal friends 
and prominent artists, authors, actors, opera-singers, 
and ballet-dancers, with a few of horses and dogs, 
divided into groups, with a blank space between. 
Bertha had no difficulty in deciding which were his 
friends, for there confronting her, with her sunny smile 
and laughing blue eyes, was Louie’s picture given to 
him at Saratoga, and placed by the side of a sweet- 
faced, refined-looking woman wearing a rather old-style 
dress, who, Bertha fancied, might be his mother. 

“ How lovely Louie is,” she thought, “ and what a 
different life hers would have been had her friendship 
for Reginald Hallam ripened into love, as it ought to 
have done !” Then, casting her eyes upon another 
group, she started violently as she saw herself tucked in 
between a rope-walker and a ballet-dancer. “ What 
does it mean ? and how did my picture get here ?” she 
exclaimed, taking it from the frame and wondering still 
more when she read upon it, “ Rose Arabella Jefferson, 
Scotsburg.” 

“ Rose Arabella Jefferson !” she repeated. “ Who is 
she ? and how came her name on my picture ? and how 
came my picture in Rex Hallam 's possession ?” Then, 
remembering that she had sent it by request to Mrs. 
Hallam, she guessed how Rex came by it, and felt a 
little thrill of pride that he had liked it well enough to 
give it a place in his collection, even if it were in coni- 


52 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


pany with ballet-girls. “ But it shall not stay there/* 
she thought. “ I’ll put it next to Louie’s, and let him 
wonder who changed it, if he ever notices the change.” 

Mrs. Flagg was coming, and, hastily putting the 
photograph between Louie’s and that of a woman who 
she afterwards found was Mrs. Carter Hallam, she went k 
out to meet the housekeeper, whom she followed to her 
room. 

“ You will not be afraid, as the servants all sleep up 
here. We have six besides the coachman,” Mrs. Flagg 
said as she bade her good-night. 

“ Six servants besides the coachman and housekeeper ! 

I make the ninth, for I dare say I am little more than 
that in my lady’s estimation,” Bertha thought, as she 
sat alone, watching the minute-hand of the clock creep- 
ing slowly round, and wondering when the grand din- 
ner would be over and Mrs. Hallam ready to receive 
her. Then, lest the lump in her throat should get the 
mastery, she began to walk up and down her rather 
small quarters, to look out of the window upon the 
roofs of the houses, and to count the chimneys and 
spires in the distance. 

It was very different from the lookout at home, with 
its long stretch of wooded hills, its green fields and 
meadows and grassy lane. Once her tears were threat- 
ening every moment to start, when a maid appeared 
and said her mistress was at liberty to see her. With a 
beating heart and heightened color, Bertha followed 
her to the boudoir, where, in amber satin and diamonds 
Mrs. Hallam was waiting, herself somewhat flurried 
and nervous and doubtful how to conduct herself dur- 
ing the interview. She was always a little uncertain 
how to maintain a dignity worthy of Mrs, Carter Hallara 


THE COMPANION. 


53 


under all circumstances, for, although she had been in 
society so long and had seen herself quoted and her 
| dinners and receptions described so often, she was not 
yet quite sure of herself, nor had she learned the truth 
of Rex’s theory that gold was not the less gold because 
in the same purse with pennies. She had never for- 
gotten the shoe-shop and the barefoot girl picking 
berries, with all the other humble surroundings of her 
childhood, and because she had not she felt it incumbent 
upon her to try to prove that she was and always had 
been what she seemed to be, a leader of fashion, with 
millions at her command. To compass this she as- 
sumed an air of haughty superiority towards those whom 
she thought her inferiors. She had never hired a com- 
panion, and in the absence of her mentor, Mrs. Walker 
Haynes, she did not know exactly how to treat one. 
Had she asked Rex, he would have said, “ Treat her 
as you would any other young lady.” But Rex 
held some very ultra views, and was not to be trusted 
implicitly. Fortunately, however, a guest at dinner 
had helped her greatly by recounting her own exper- 
ience with a companion who was always getting out of 
her place, and who finally ran off with a French count at 
Trouville, where they were spending the summer. 

“ I began wrong,” the lady said. “ I was too familiar 
* at first, and made too much of her because she was edu- 
cated and superior to her class.” 

Acting upon this intimation, Mrs. Hallam decided to 
commence right. Remembering the picture which Rex 
called Squint-Eye, she had no fear that the original 
would ever run off with a French count, but she might 
have to be put down, and she would begin by sitting 
down to receive her. “Standing will make her too 


£>4 Mrs. hallam’s companion. 

much my equal,” she thought, and, adjusting the folds 
of her satin gown and assuming an expression which 
she meant to be very cold and distant, she glanced up 
carelessly, but still a little nervously, as she heard the 
sound of footsteps and knew there was some one at the 
door. She was expecting a very ordinary-looking per- 
son, with wide mouth, half-closed eyes, and light hair, 
and when she saw a tall, graceful girl, with dark hair 
and eyes, brilliant color, and an air decidedly patrician, 
as Mrs. Walker Haynes would say, she was startled out 
of: her dignity, and involuntarily rose to her feet and 
half extended her hand. Then, remembering herself, 
she dropped it, and said, stammeringly, “ Oh, are you 
Miss Leighton ?” 

“Yes, madam. You were expecting me, were you 
not ?” Bertha answered, her voice clear and steady, 
with no sound of timidity or awe in it. 

“ Why, yes ; that is — sit down, please. There is 
some mistake,” Mrs. Hallam faltered. “ You are not 
like your photograph, or the one I took for you. They 
must have gotten mixed, as Rex said they did. He in- 
sisted that your letter did not belong to what I said was 
your photograph and which he called Squint-Eye.” 

Here it occurred to Mrs. Hallam that she was not 
commencing right at all, — that she was quite too com- 
municative to a girl who looked fully equal to running 
off with a duke, if she chose, and who must be kept 
down. But she explained about the letters and the 
photographs until Bertha had a tolerably correct idea 
of the mistake and laughed heartily over it. It was a 
very merry, musical laugh, in which Mrs. Hallam joined 
for a moment. Then, resuming her haughty manner, 


CoMPAfcrfotf. 55 

fehe plied Bertha with questions, saying to her first, 
“ Your home is in Boston, I believe ?” 

“ Oh, no,” Bertha replied; “ My home is in Leicester, 
where I was born.” 

“ In Leicester !” Mrs. Hallam replied, her voice in* 
dicative of surprise and disapprobation. “ You wrote 
me from Boston; Why did you do that ?” 

Bertha explained Why, and Mrs. Hallam asked next 
if she lived in the village or the Country. 

“ In the country, on a farm,” Bertha answered, Worn 
dering at Mrs. Hallam’s evident annoyance at finding 
that she came from Leicester instead of Boston. 

It had not before occurred to her to connect the 
Homestead with Mrs. Carter Hallam, but it came to her 
now, and at a venture she said, “ Our place is called 
the Hallam Homestead, named for a family who lived 
there many years ago.” 

She was looking curiously at Mrs. Hallam, whose face 
was crimson at first and then grew pale, but who for a 
moment made no reply. Here was a complication, — 
Leicester, and perhaps the old life, brought home to her 
by the original of the picture so much admired by Rex, 
who had it in mind to buy the old Homestead, and was 
sure to admire the girl when he saw her, as he would, 
for he was coming to Aix-les-Bains some time during 
the summer. If Mrs. Hallam could have found an ex- 
cuse for it, she would have dismissed Bertha at once. 
But there was none. She was there, and she must keep 
her, and perhaps it might be well to be frank with her 
to a certain extent. So she said at last, “ My husband’s 
family once lived in Leicester, — presumably on your 
father’s farm. That was years ago, before I was mar- 
ried. My nephew, Mr. Reginald” (she laid much 


56 


MRS. ttALLAM*S COMPANION. 


stress on the Mr., as if to impress Bertha with the dis- 
tance there was between them), has, I believe, some 
quixotic notion about buying the old place. Is it for 
sale ?” 

The fire which flashed into Bertha’s eyes and the hot 
color which stained her cheeks startled Mrs. Hallam, 
who was not prepared for Bertha’s excitement as she 
replied, “ For sale ! Never ! There is a mortgage of 
long standing on it, but it will be paid in the fall. I 
am going with you to earn the money to pay it. Noth- 
ing else would take me from father and Dorcas so long. 
We heard there was a New York man wishing to buy 
it, but he may as well think of buying the Coliseum as 
our home. Tell him so, please, for me. Hallam Home- 
stead is not for sale.” 

As she talked, Bertha grew each moment more earn- 
est and excited and beautiful, with the tears shining in 
her eyes and the bright color on her cheeks. Mrs. Hal- 
lam was not a hard woman, nor a bad woman ; she was 
simply calloused over with false ideas of caste and posi- 
tion, which prompted her to restrain her real nature 
whenever it asserted itself, as it was doing now. Some- 
thing about Bertha fascinated and interested her, bring- 
ing back the long ago, with the odor of the pines, the 
perfume of the pond-lilies, and the early days of her 
married life. But this feeling soon passed. Habit is 
everything, and she had been the fashionable Mrs. 
Carter Hallam so long that it would take more than a 
memory of the past to change her. She must maintain 
her dignity, and not give way to sentiment, and she was 
soon herself, cold and distant, with her chin in the air, 
where she usually carried it when talking to those 
whom she wished to impress with her superiority. 


THE COMPANION. 


57 


For some time longer she talked to Bertha, and 
learned as much of her history as Bertha chose to tell. 
Her mother was born in Georgia, she said ; her father 
in Boston. He was a Yale graduate, and fonder of 
books than of farming. They were poor, keeping no ser- 
vants ; Dorcas, her only sister, kept the house, while she 
did what she could to help pay expenses and lessen the 
mortgage on the farm. All this Bertha told readily 
enough, with no thought of shame for her poverty. 
She saw that Mrs. Hallam was impressed with the 
Southern mother and scholarly father, and once she 
thought to speak of her cousin, Mrs. Louie, but did not, 
and here she possibly made a mistake, for Mrs. Hallam 
had a great respect for family connections, as that was 
what she lacked. She had heard of Mrs. Fred Thurs- 
ton, as had every frequenter of Saratoga and Newport, 
and once at the former place .she had seen her driving 
in her husband’s stylish turnout with Reginald at her 
side. He was very attentive to the beauty whom he 
had known at the South, and Mrs. Hallam had once or 
twice intimated to him that she, too, would like to meet 
her, but he had not acted upon the hint, and she had 
left Saratoga without accomplishing her object. Had 
Bertha told of the relationship between herself and 
Louie, it might have made some difference in her rela- 
tions with her employer. But she did not, and after a 
little further catechising Mrs. Hallam dismissed her, 
saying, “ As the ship sails at nine, it will be necessary 
to rise very early ; so I will bid you good-night.” 

The next morning Bertha breakfasted with Mrs. 
Flagg, who told her that, as a friend was to accompany 
Mrs. Hallam in her coupe to the ship, she was to go in 
a street car, with a maid to show her the way. 


$8 


Mrs. RaLLam’s CoMRAtfiotf. 


“ Evidently I am a hired servant and nothing more/* 
Bertha thought ; “ but I can endure even that for the 
sake of Europe and five hundred dollars.” And, bid- 
ding good-bye to Mrs. Flagg, she was soon on her w* 1 
to the Teutonic. 


CHAPTER VI. 

ON THE TEUTONIC. 

Bertha found Mrs. Hallam in her state-room, which 
was one of the largest and most expensive on the ship. 
With her were three or four ladies who were there to 
say good-bye, all talking together and offering advice 
in case of sickness, while Mrs. Hallam fanned herself 
vigorously, as the morning was very hot. 

“Are you not taking a maid?” one of the ladies 
asked, and Mrs. Hallam replied that Mrs. Haynes ad- 
vised her to get one in Paris, adding, “ I have a young 
girl as companion, and I’m sure I don’t know where 
she is. She ought to be here by this time. I dare say 
she will be more trouble than good. She seems quite 
the fine lady. I hardly know what I am to do with 
her.” 

“ Keep her in her place,” was the prompt advice of a 
little, common-looking woman, who was once a nursery 
governess, but was now a millionaire, and perfectly 
competent to advise as to the proper treatment of a 
companion. 

Just then Bertha appeared, and was stared at by the 
ladies, who took no further notice of her. 


6N TIIE TEUTONIC. 


u I am glad you’ve got here at last. What kept you 
so long ?” Mrs. Hallam asked, a little petulantly, while 
Bertha replied that she had been detained by a block in 
the street cars, and asked if there was anything she 
could do. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hallam answered. “I wish you would 
open my sea trunk and satchel, and get out my wrap- 
per, and shawl, and cushion, and toilet articles, and 
salts, and camphor. I am sure to be sick the minute we 
get out to sea.” And handing her keys to Bertha, she 
went with her friends outside, where the crowd was 
increasing every moment. 

The passenger list was full, and every passenger had 
at least half a dozen acquaintances to see him off, so 
that by the time Bertha had arranged Mrs. Hallam’s 
belongings, and gone out on deck, there was hardly 
standing room. Finding a seat near the purser’s office, 
she sat down and watched the surging mass of human 
beings, jostling, pushing, crowding each other, the con- 
fusion reaching its climax when the order came for the 
ship to be cleared of all visitors. Then for a time they 
stood so thickly around her that she could see nothing 
and hear nothing but a confused babel of voices, until 
suddenly there was - a break in the ranks, and a tall 
young man, who had been fightinghis way to the plank, 
pitched headlong against her with such force that she 
fell from the seat, losing her hat in the fall, and strik- 
ing her forehead on a sharp point near her. 

“ I beg your pardon ; are you much hurt ? I am so 
sorry, but I could not help it, they pushed me so in this 
infernal crowd. Let me help you up,” a pleasant, manly 
voice, full of concern, said to her, while two strong 
hands lifted her to her feet, and on to the seat where 


60 


MRS. rallam's companion. 


she had been sitting. “You are safe here, unless some 
other blunderhead knocks you down again,” the young 
man continued, as he managed to pick up her hat. 
“ Some wretch has stepped on it, but I think I can 
doctor it into shape,” he said, giving it a twist or two, 
and then putting it very carefully on Bertha’s head 
hind side before. “There! It is all right, I think, 
though, upon my soul, it does seem a little askew,” he 
added, looking for the first time fully at Bertha, who 
was holding her hand to her forehead, where a big 
bump was beginning to show. 

Her hand hid a portion of her face, but she smiled 
brightly and gratefully upon the stranger, whose man- 
ner was so friendly and whose brown eyes seen through 
his glasses looked so kindly at her. 

“ By Jove, you are hurt,” he continued, “ and I did it. 
I can’t help you, as I’ve got to go, but my aunt is on 
board, — Mrs. Carter Hallam ; find her, and tell her that 
her awkward nephew came near knocking your brains 
out. She has every kind of drug and lotion imaginable, 
from morphine to Pond’s extract, and is sure to find 
something for that bump. And now I must go or be 
carried off.” 

He gave another twist to her hat and offered her his 
hand, and then ran down the plank to the wharf, where, 
with hundreds of others, he stood, waving his hat and 
cane to his friends on the ship, which began to move 
slowly from the dock. He was so tall that Bertha 
could see him distinctly, and she stood watching him 
and him alone, until he was a speck in the distance. 
Then, with a feeling of loneliness, she started for her 
state-room, where Mrs. Hallam, who had preceded her, 
was looking rather cross and doing her best to be sick, 


ON THE TEUTONIC. 


61 


although as yet there was scarcely any motion to the 
vessel. 

Reginald, whose train was late, had hurried at once 
to the ship, which he reached in time to see his aunt 
for a few moments only. Her last friend had said good- 
bye, and she was feeling very forlorn, and wondering 
where Bertha could be, when he came rushing up, 
bringing so much life and sunshine and magnetism 
with him that Mrs. Hallam began to feel doubly for- 
lorn as she wondered what she should do without 
him. 

“ Oh, Rex,” she said, laying her head on his arm and 
beginning to cry a little, “ I am so glad you have come, 
and I wish you were going with me. I fear I have 
made a mistake starting off alone. I don’t know at all 
how to take care of myself.” 

Rex smoothed her hair, patted her hand, soothed her 
as well as he could, and told her he was sure she would 
get on well enough and that he would certainly join her 
in August. 

“ Where is Miss Leighton ? Hasn’t she put in an 
appearance ?” he asked, and his aunt replied, with a lit- 
tle asperity of manner : 

“Yes ; she came last night, and she seems a high and 
mighty sort of damsel. I am disappointed, and afraid I 
shall have trouble with her.” 

“ Sit down on her if she gets too high and mighty,” 
Rex said, laughingly, while his aunt was debating the 
propriety of telling him of the mistake and who Bertha 
was. 

“ I don’t believe I will. He will find it out soon 
enough,” she thought, just as the last warning to leave 


62 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


the boat was given, aixl with a hurried good-bye Rex 
left her, saying, as he did so : 

“ I’ll look a bit among the crowd, and if I find your 
squint-eyed damsel I’ll send her to you. I shall know 
her in a minute.” 

Here was a good chance to explain, but Mrs. Hallam 
let it pass, and Rex went his way, searching here and 
there for a light-haired, weak-eyed woman answering to 
her photograph. 

But he did not find her, and ran instead against 
Bertha, with no suspicion that she was the girl he had 
told his aunt to sit on, and for whom that lady waited 
rather impatiently after the ship was cleared. 

“ Oh !” she said, as Bertha came in. “ I have been 
waiting for you some time. Did you have friends to say 
good-bye to ? Give me my salts, please, and camphor, 
and fan, and a pillow, and close that shutter. I don’t 
want the herd looking in upon me ; nor do I think this 
room so very desirable, with all the people passing and 
repassing. I told Rex so, and he said nobody wanted 
to see me in my night-cap. He was here to say good-bye. 
His train got in just in time.” 

Bertha closed the shutters and brought a pillow and 
fan and the camphor and salts, and then bathed the 
bruise on her forehead, which was increasing in size and 
finally attracted Mrs. Hallam’s attention. 

“ Are you hurt ?” she asked, and Bertha replied, “ I 
was knocked down in the crowd by a young man who 
told me he had an aunt, a Mrs. Hallam, on board. I 
suppose he must have been your nephew.” 

“ Did you tell him who you were ?” Mrs. Hallam 
asked, with a shake of her head and disapproval in her 
voice, 


ON THE TEUTONIC. 


63 


u No, madam,” Bertha replied. “ He was trying to 
apologize for what he had done, and spoke to me of you 
as one to whom I could go for help if I was badly hurt.” 

“ Yes, that is like Reginald, — thinking of everything,” 
Mrs. Hallam said. After a moment she added, “ He 
has lived with me since he was a boy, and is the same 
as a son. He will join me in Aix-les-Bains in August. 
Miss Grace Haynes is there, and I don’t mind telling 
you, as you will probably see for yourself, that I think 
there is a sort of understanding between him and her. 
Nothing would please me better.” 

“ There ! I have headed off any idea she might pos- 
sibly have with regard to Rex, who is so democratic and 
was so struck with her photograph, while she, — well, 
there is something in her eyes and the lofty way she 
carries her head and shoulders that I don’t like ; it looks 
too much like equality, and I am afraid I may have to 
sit on her, as Rex bade me do,” was Mrs. Hallam’s 
mental comment, as she adjusted herself upon her couch 
and issued her numerous orders. 

For three days she stayed in her state-room, not 
because she was actually sea-sick, but because she 
feared she would be. To lie perfectly quiet in her berth 
until she was accustomed to the motion of the vessel 
was the advice given her by one of her friends, and as 
far as possible she followed it, while Bertha was kept in 
constant attendance, reading to her, brushing her hair, 
bathing her hjead, opening and shutting the windows, 
and taking messages to those of her acquaintances able 
to be on deck. The sea was rather rough for June, but 
Bertha was not at all affected by it, and the only incon- 
venience she suffered was want of sufficient exercise and 
fresh air. Early in the morning, while Mrs. Hallapi 


64 


MRS. H ALLAH'S COMPANION. 


slept, she was free to go on deck, and again late in the 
evening, after the lady had retired for the night. These 
walks, with going to her meals, were the only recrea- 
tion or change she had, and she was beginning to droop 
a little, when at last Mrs. Hallam declared herself able 
to go upon deck, where, by the aid of means which i 
seldom fail, she managed to gain possession of the sun- 
niest and most sheltered spot, which she held in spite of 
the protestations of another party who claimed the 
place on the ground of first occupancy. She was Mrs. 
Carter Hallam, and she kept the field until a vacancy 
occurred in the vicinity of some people whom to know, 
if possible, was desirable. Then she moved, and had 
her reward in being told by one of the magnates that 
it was a fine day and the ship was making good time. 

Every morning Bertha brought her rugs and wraps 
and cushions and umbrella, and after seeing her com- 
fortably adjusted sat down at a respectful distance and 
waited for orders, which were far more frequent than 
was necessary. No one spoke to her, although many 
curious and admiring glances were cast at the bright, 
handsome girl who seemed quite as much a lady as her 
mistress, but who was performing the duties of a maid 
and was put down upon the passenger-list as Mrs. Hal- 
lam’s companion. As it chanced, there was a royal 
personage on board, and one day when standing near , 
Bertha, who was watching a steamer just appearing 
upon the horizon, he addressed some remark to her, and 
then, attracted by something in her face, or manner, or 
both, continued to talk with her, until Mrs. Hallam ’s 
peremptory voice called out : 

“ Bertha, I want you. Don’t you see my rug is fall- 
ing off ?” 


ON THE TEUTONIC. 


65 


There was a questioning glance at the girl thus bid- 
den and at the woman who bade her, and then, lifting 
his hat politely to the former, the stranger walked away, 
while Bertha went to Mrs. Hallam, who said to her 
sharply : 

“ I wonder at your presumption ; but possibly you did 
not know to whom you were talking ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I did,” Bertha replied. “ It was the prince. 
He speaks English fluently, and I found him very agree- 
able.” 

She was apparently as unconcerned as if it had been 
the habit of her life to consort with royalty, and Mrs. 
Hallam looked at her wonderingly, conscious in her 
narrow soul of an increased feeling of respect for the 
girl whom a prince had honored with his notice and 
who took it so coolly and naturally. But she did not 
abate her requirements or exactions in the least. On 
the contrary, it seemed as if she increased them. But 
Bertha bore it all patiently, performing every task 
imposed upon her as if it were a pleasure, and 
never giving any sign of fatigue, although in reality 
she was never so tired in her life as when at last they 
sailed up the Mersey and into the docks at Liverpool. 

At Queenstown she sent off a letter to Dorcas, in 
which, after speaking of her arrival in New York and 
the voyage in general, she wrote, “ I hardly know what 
to say of Mrs. Hallam until I have seen more of her. 
She is a great lady, and great ladies need a great deal 
of waiting upon, and the greater they are the greater 
their need. There must be something Shylocky in her 
nature, and, as she gives me a big salary, she means to 
have her pound of flesh. I am down on the passenger 
list as her companion, but it should be maid, as I am 


66 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


really that. But when we reach Paris there will be a 
change, as she is to have a French maid there. It will 
surprise you, as it did me, to know that she belongs to 
the Hallams for whom the Homestead was named and 
who father thought were all dead. Her husband was 
born there. Where she came from I do not know. 
She is very reticent on that point. I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised if she once worked in a factory, she is so particu- 
lar to have her position recognized. Such a scramble 
as she had to get to the captain’s table ; though what 
good that does I cannot guess, inasmuch as he is seldom 
there himself. I am at Nobody s table, and like it, be- 
cause I am a nobody. 

“ Do you remember the letter father had, saying that 
some New Yorker wanted to buy our farm and was 
coming to look at it? That New Yorker is cousin 
Louie’s Reginald Hallam, of whom I told you, and Mrs. 
Carter's nephew ; not in the least like her, I fancy, 
although I have only had the pleasure of being knocked 
down by him on the ship. But he was not to blame. 
The crowd pushed him against me with such force that 
I fell off the seat and nearly broke my head. My hat 
was crushed out of all shape, and he made it worse trying 
to twist it back. He was kindness itself, and his brown 
eyes full of concern as the3 r looked at me through the 
clearest pair of rimless glasses I ever saw. He did not 
know who I was, of course, but I am sure he would 
have been just as kind if he had. I can understand 
Louie’s infatuation for him, and why his aunt adores 
him. 

“ But what nonsense to be writing with Queenstown 
in sight, and this letter must be finished to send off. I 
am half ashamed of what I have said of Mrs, Hallam, 


REGINALD AND PIIINEAS JONES. 


67 


who when she forgets what a grand lady she is, can be 
very nice, and I really think she likes me a little. 

“ And now I must close, with more love for you and 
father than can be carried in a hundred letters. Will 
write again from Paris. Good-bye, good-bye. 

“ Bertha. 

“ P. S. I told you that if a New Yorker came to buy 
the farm you were to shut the door in his face. But 
you may as well let him in.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

REGINALD AND PHINEAS JONES. 

After bidding his aunt good-bye, Reginald went 
home for a few moments, and then to his office, where 
he met for the first time Mr. Gorham, the owner of the 
Leighton mortgage, and learned that the place was 
really where his father used to live and that the Home- 
stead was named for the Hallams. This increased his 
desire to own it, and, as there was still time to catch 
the next train for Boston, he started for the depot and 
was soon on his way to Worcester, where he arrived 
about four in the afternoon. Wishing to make some 
inquiries as to the best means of reaching Leicester, 
he went to a hotel, where he found no one in the of- 
fice besides the clerk except a tall, spare man, with 
long, light hair tinged with gray, and shrewdness and 


68 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


curiosity written all over his good-humored face. He 
wore a linen duster, with no collar, and only an apology 
for a handkerchief twisted around his neck. Tipping 
back in one chair, with his feet in another, he was 
taking frequent and most unsuccessful aims at a cuspi- 
dor about six feet from him. 

“ Good-afternoon,” he said, removing his feet from 
the chair for a moment, but soon putting them back, as 
he asked if Reginald had just come from the train, and 
whether from the East or the West. Then he told him 
it was an all-fired hot day, that it looked like thunder in 
the west, and he shouldn’t wonder if they got a heavy 
shower before night. 

To all this Reginald assented, and then went to the 
desk to register, while the stranger, on pretense of look- 
ing at something in the street, also arose and sauntered 
to the door, managing to glance at the register and see 
the name just written there. 

Resuming his seat and inviting Rex to take a chair 
near him, he began : “ I b’lieve you’re from New York. 
I thought so the minute you came in. I have traveled 
from Dan to Beersheba, and been through the war, — 
was a corp’ral there, — and I generally spot you fellows 
when I first put my eye on you. I am Phineas Jones, — 
Phin for short. I hain’t any real profession, but am 
jack at all trades and good at none. Everybody knows 
me in these parts, and I know everybody.” 

Rex, who began to be greatly amused with this queer 
specimen, bowed an acknowledgment of the honor of 
knowing Mr. Jones, who said, “Be you acquainted in 
Worcester ?” 

“ Not at all. Was never here before,” was Rex’s re- 
ply, and Phineas continued : Slow old place, some 


REGINALD AND PHINEAS JONES. 


69 


think, but I like it. Full of nice folks of all sorts, with, 
clubs, and lodges, and societies, and no end of squab- 
bles about temperance and city officers and all that. 
As for music, — my land, I’d smile to see any place hold 
a candle to us. Had all the crack singers here, even to 
the diver.” 

Rex, who had listened rather indifferently to Phineas’s 
laudations of Worcester, now asked if he knew much of 
the adjoining towns, — Leicester, for instance. 

“ Wa-all, I’d smile,” Phineas replied, with a fierce as- 
sault upon the cuspidor. “Yes, I would smile if I didn’t 
know Leicester. Why, I was born there, and it’s always 
been my native town, except two or three years in Stur- 
bridge, when I was a shaver, and the time I was to the 
war and travelin’ round. Pleasant town, but dull, — 
with no steam cars nigher than Rochdale or Worcester. 
Got stages and an electric car to Spencer ; — run every 
half-hour. Think of goin’ there ?” 

Rex said he did, and asked the best way of getting 
there. 

“Wa-all, there’s four ways, — the stage, but that’s 
gone ; hire a team and drive out, — that’s expensive ; 
take the steam cars for Rochdale, or Jamesville, and then 
drive out, — that’s expensive, too ; or take the electric, 
which is cheaper, and pleasanter, and quicker. Know 
anybody in Leicester ?” 

Rex said he didn’t, and asked if Phineas knew a place 
called Hallam Homestead. 

“ Wa-all, I’d smile if I didn’t,” Phineas replied. 
“ Why, I’ve worked in hayin’-time six or seven sum- 
mers for Square Leighton. He was ’lected justice of 
the peace twelve or fifteen years ago, and I call him 
Square yet, as a title seems to suit him, he’s so different- 


70 Mrs. hallam’s companion. 

lookin’ from most farmers, — kind of high-toned, you 
know. Ort to have been an aristocrat. As to the Hal- 
lams, who used to own the place, I’ve heard of ’em ever 
since I was knee-high ; I was acquainted with Carter ; 
first-rate feller. By the way, your name is Hallam. 
Any kin ?” 

Rex explained his relationship to the Hallams, while 
the smile habitual to Phineas’s face, and which, with the 
expressions he used so often, had given him the sobri- 
quet of Smiling Phin, broadened into a loud laugh of 
genuine delight and surprise, and, springing up, he 
grasped Rex’s hand, exclaiming : “ This beats the 
Dutch ! I’m glad to see you, I be. I thought you was 
all dead when Carter died. There’s a pile of you in the 
old Greenville graveyard. Why, you ’n’ I must be con- 
nected.” 

Rex looked at him wonderingly, while he went on : 
*• You see, Carter Hallam’s wife was Lucy Ann Brown, 
and her great-grandmother and my great-grandfather 
were half brother and sister. Now, what relation be I 
to Lucy Ann, or to you ?” 

Rex confessed his inability to trace so remote a rela- 
tionship on so hot a day, and Phineas rejoined : 

“’Tain’t very near, that’s a fact, but we’re related, 
though I never thought Lucy Ann hankered much for 
my society. I used to call her cousin, which made her 
mad. She was a handsome girl when she clerked it 
here in Worcester and roped Carter in. A high stepper, 
— turned up her nose when I ast her for her company. 
That’s when she was bindin’ shoes, before she knew 
Carter. I don’t s’pose I could touch her now with a ten- 
foot pole, though I b’lieve I’ll call the fust time I’m in 


fcE&lNALt) AND EHINEAS JONES. 71 

New York, if you’ll give me your number. Blood is 
blood. How is the old lady ?” 

Here was a chance for Rex to inquire into his aunt’s 
antecedents, of which he knew little, as she was very 
reticent with regard to her early life. He knew that 
she was an orphan and had no near relatives, and that 
she had once lived in Worcester, and that was all. The 
clerkship and the shoe-binding were news to him ; he 
did not even know before that she was Lucy Ann, as 
she had long ago dropped the Ann as too plebian ; but, 
with the delicacy of a true gentleman, he would not ask 
a question of this man, who, he was sure, would tell all 
he knew and a great deal more, if urged. 

“ I wonder what Aunt Lucy would say to being 
visited and cousined by this Yankee, who calls her an 
old lady ?” he thought, as he said that she was very well 
and had just sailed for Europe, adding that she was 
still handsome and very young-looking. 

“You don’t say !” Phineas exclaimed, and began at 
once to calculate her age, basing his data on a spelling- 
school in Sturbridge when she was twelve years old and 
had spelled him down, a circus in Fiskdale which she 
had attended with him when she was fifteen, and the 
time when he had asked for her company in Worcester. 
Naturally, he made her several years older than she 
really was. 

But she was not there to protest, and Rex did not 
care. He was more interested in his projected purchase 
than in his aunt’s age, and he asked if the Hallam 
farm were good or bad. 

“Wa-all, ’taint neither,” Phineas replied. “You see, 
it’s pretty much run down for want of means and man- 
agement. The Square ain’t no kind of a farmer, and 


MRS. HALL AM S COMPANION. 


Y2 

never was, and he didn’t ort to be one, but his wife pef- 
suaded him. My land, how a woman can twist a man 
round her fingers, especially if she’s kittenish and 
pretty and soft-spoken, as the Square’s wife was. She 
was from Georgy, and nothin’ would do but she must 
live on a farm and have it fixed up as nigh like her 
father’s plantation as she could. She took down the big 
chimbleys and built some outside, — queer-lookin’ till the 
woodbine run up and covered ’em clear to the top, and 
now they’re pretty. She made a bath-room out of the 
but’try, and a but’try out of the meal-room. She 
couldn’t have niggers, nor, of course, nigger cabins, but 
she got him to build a lot of other out-houses, which 
cost a sight, — stables, and a dog-kennel.” 

“ Dog-kennels !” Rex interrupted, feeling more de- 
sirous than ever for a place with kennels already in it. 
“ How large are they ?” 

“ There ain’t but one,” Phineas said, “ and that ain’t 
there now. It was turned into a pig-pen long ago, for 
the Square can’t abide dogs ; but there’s a hen-house, 
and smoke-house, and ice-house, and house over the 
well, and flower-garden with box borders, and yard ter- 
raced down to the orchard, with brick walls and steps, 
and a dammed brook ” 

“ A what ?” Reginald asked, in astonishment. 

“ Wa-all, I should smile if you thought. I meant dis- 
respect for the Bible ; I didn’t. I’m a church member, 
— a Free Methodist and class-leader, and great on ex- 
hortin’ and experiencin’, they say. I don’t swear. 
You spelt the word wrong, with an n instead of two m' s, 
that’s what’s the matter. "That’s the word your aunt 
Lucy Ann spelt me down on at the spellin’-school. We 
two stood up longest and were tryin’ for the medal. I was 


REGINALD AND PHlNEAS JONES. 73 

more used to the word with an n in it than I am now, and 
got beat. What I mean about the brook is that it runs 
acrost the road into the orchard, and Mis’ Leighton had 
it dammed up with boards and stones to make a water- 
fall, with a rustic bridge below it, and a butternut tree 
and a seat under it, where you can set and view nature. 
But bless your soul, such things don’t pay, and if Mis’ 
Leighton had lived she’d of ruined the Square teetotally. 
but she died, poor thing, and the Square’s hair turned 
white in six months.” 

“What family has Mr. Leighton?” Rex asked, and 
Phineas replied : 

“ Two girls, that’s all ; one handsome as blazes, like 
her mother, and the other — wa’all, she is nice-lookin’, 
with a motherly, venerable kind of face that everybody 

trusts. She stays to hum, Dorcas does, while ” 

Here he was interrupted by Rex, who, more interested 
just then in the farm than in the girls, asked if it was 
for sale. 

“ For sale ?” Phineas replied. “ I’d smile to see the 
Square sell his farm, though he owes a pile on it ; bor- 
rows of Peter to pay Paul, you know, and so keeps a- 
goin’ ; but I don’t believe he’d sell for love nor money.” 

“ Not if he could get cash down and, say, a thousand 
more than it is worth ?” Rex suggested. 

Staggered by the thousand dollars, which seemed like 
a fortune to one who had never had more than a few 
hundred at a time in his life, Phineas gasped : 

“ One thousand extry ! Wa-all, I swan, a thousand 
extry would tempt some men to sell their souls ; but I 
don’t know about it fetchin’ the Square. Think of 
buyin’ it ?” 

Rex said he did. 


74 


MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION. 


“ For yourself ?” 

“ Yes, for myself.” 

“ You goin’ to turn farmer?” and Phineas looked him 
over from head to foot. “ Wa-all, if that ain’t curi’s. 
I’d smile to see you, or one of your New York dudes, 
a-farmin’ it, with your high collars, your long coats and 
wide trouses and yaller shoes and canes and eye-glasses, 
and hands that never done a stroke of hard work in 
your lives. Yes, I would.” • 

Rex had never felt so small in his life as when 
Phineas was drawing a picture he recognized as toler- 
ably correct of most of his class, and he half wished his 
collar was a trifle lower and his coat a little shorter, 
but he laughed good-humoredly and said, “ I am afraid 
we do seem a useless lot to you, and I suppose we might 
wear older-fashioned clothes, but I can’t help the 
glasses. I couldn’t see across the street without them.” 

“ I want to know,” Phineas said. “ Wa-all, they ain’t 
bad on you, they’re so clear and hain’t no rims to speak 
of. They make you look like a literary feller, or more 
like a minister. Be you a professor ?” 

Rex flushed a little at the close questioning, expect- 
ing to be asked next how much he was worth and 
where his money was invested, but he answered 
honestly, “ I wish I could say yes, but I can’t.” 

“ What a pity ! Come to one of our meetin’s, and 
we’ll convert you in no time. What persuasion be 
you ?” 

Reginald said he was an Episcopalian, and Phineas’s 
face fell. He hadn’t much faith in Episcopalians, think- 
ing their service was mere form, with nothing in it 
which he could enjoy, except that he did not have to 
sit still long enough to get sleepy, and there were so 


REGINALD AND DHINEAS JONES. 


75 


many places where he could come in strong with an 
Amen, as he always did. This opinion, however, he 
did not express to Reginald. He merely said, “ Wa-all, 
there’s good folks in every church. I do b’lieve the 
Square is pious, and he’s a ’Piscopal. Took it from his 
Georgy wife, who had a good many other fads. You 
have a good face,, like all the Hallams, and I b’lieve 
they died in the faith. Says so, anyway, on their tomb- 
stones ; but monuments lie as well as obituaries. But 
I ain’t a-goin’ to discuss religious tenants, though I’m 
fust-rate at. it, they say. I want to know what you 
want of a farm ?” 

Rex told him that he had long wished for a place in 
the country, where he could spend a part of each year 
with a few congenial friends, hunting and fishing and 
boating, and from what he had heard of the Home- 
stead, he thought it would just suit him, there were so 
many hills and woods and ponds around it. 

“ Are there pleasant drives ?” he asked, and Phineas 
replied : 

“ Tip-top, the city-folks think. Woods full of roads 
leading nowhere except to some old house a hundred 
years old or more, and the older they be the better the 
city folks like ’em. Why, they actu’lly go into the gar- 
rets and buy up old spinning-wheels and desks and 
chairs ; and, my land, they’re crazy over tall clocks.” 

Rex did not care much for the furniture of the old 
garrets unless it should happen to belong to the Hal- 
lams, and he asked next if there were foxes in the 
woods, and if he could get up a hunt with dogs and 
horses. 

Phineas did not smile, but laughed long and loud, 
and deluged the cuspidor, before he replied : 


MRS. hallam’s companion. 


76 


“ Wa-all, if I won’t give up ! A fox hunt, with 
hounds and horses, tearin’ through the folks’s fields and 
gardens ! Why, you’d be mobbed. You’d be tarred 
and feathered. You’d be rid on a rail.” 

“But,” Rex exclaimed, I should keep on my own 
premises. A man has a right to do what he pleases 
with his own,” a remark which so affected Phineas that 
he doubled up with laughter, as he said : 

“ That’s so ; but, bless your soul, the Homestead 
farm ain’t big enough for a hunt. It takes acres and 
acres for that, and if you had ’em the foxes wouldn’t 
stop to ask if it’s your premises or somebody else’s. 
They ain’t likely to take to the open if they can help it, 
but with the dogs to their heels and widder Brady’s 
garden right before ’em they’d make a run for it. Her 
farm jines the Homestead, and ’twould be good as a 
circus to see the hounds tearin’ up her sage and her 
gooseberries and her voilets. She’d be out with brooms 
and mops and pokers ; and, besides that, the Leicester 
women would be up in arms and say ’twas cruel for a 
lot of men to hunt a poor fox to death just for fun. 
They are great on Bergh, Leicester women are, and 
they might arrest you.” 

Reginald saw his fox hunts fading into air, and was 
about to ask what there was in the woods which he 
could hunt without fear of the widow Brady or the 
Bergh ladies of the town, when Phineas sprang up, ex- 
claiming : 

“ Hullo ! there’s the Square now. I saw him in town 
this mornin’ about some plasterin’ I ort to have done 
six weeks ago.” 

And he darted from the door, while Rex, looking 
from the window, saw an old horse drawing an old 


REGINALD AND PHINEAS JONES. 


77 


buggy in which sat an old man, evidently intent upon 
avoiding a street-car rapidly approaching him, while 
Phineas was making frantic efforts to stop him. But a 
car from an opposite direction and a carriage blocked 
his way, and by the time these had passed the old man 
and buggy were too far up the street for him to be 
heard or to overtake them. 

“ I’m awful sorry,” he said, as he returned to the hotel. 
“ He was alone, and you could of rid with him as well 
as not and saved your fare.” 

Rex thanked him for his kind intentions, but said he 
did not mind the fare in the least and preferred the 
electric car. Then, as he wished to look about the city 
a little, he bade good-bye to Phineas, who accompanied 
him to the door, and said : “ Mabby you’d better men- 
tion my name to the Square as a surety that you’re all 
right. He h ain't traveled as much as I have, nor seen 
as many swells like you, and he might take you for a 
confidence-man.” 

Rex promised to make use of his new friend if he 
found it necessary, and walked away, while Phineas 
looked after him admiringly, thinking, “That’s a fine 
chap ; not a bit stuck up. Glad I’ve met him, for now 
I shall visit Lucy Ann when she comes home. He’s a 
little off, though, on his farm and his fox-hunts.” 

Meanwhile, Reginald walked through several streets, 
and at last found himself in the vicinity of the electric 
car, which he took for Leicester. It was a pleasant 
ride, and he enjoyed it immensely, especially after they 
were out in the country and began to climb the long 
hill. At his request he was put down at the cross-road 
and the gabled house pointed out to him. Very eagerly 
he looked about him as he went slowly up the avenue 


78 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


or lane bordered with cherry-trees on one side, and on 
the other commanding an unobstructed view of the 
country for miles around, with its valleys and thickly 
wooded hills. 

“ This is charming,” he said, as he turned his attention 
next to the house and its surroundings. 

How quiet and pleasant it looked, with its gables and 
picturesque chimneys under the shadow of the big 
apple-tree in the rear and the big elm in the front ! fie 
could see the out-buildings of which Phineas had told 
him, — the well-house, the hen-house, the smoke-house, 
the ice-house and stable, — and could hear the'faint sound 
of the brook in the orchard falling over the dam into 
the basin below. 

“ I wish I had lived here when a boy, as my father 
and uncle did,” he thought, just as a few big drops of 
rain fell upon the grass, and he noticed for the first 
time how black it was overhead, and how threatening 
were the clouds rolling up so fast from the west. 

It had been thundering at intervals ever since he left 
Worcester, and in the sultry air there was that stillness 
which portends the coming of a severe storm. But he 
had paid no attention to it, and now he did not hasten 
his steps until there came a deafening crash of thunder, 
followed instantaneously by a drenching downpour of 
rain, which seemed to come in sheets rather than in 
drops, and he knew that in a few minutes he would be 
wet through, as his coat was rather thin and he had no 
umbrella. He was still some little distance from the 
house, but by running swiftly he was soon under the 
shelter of the piazza, and knocking at the door, with a 
hope that it might be opened by the girl who Phineas 
had said “ was handsome as blazes,” 


REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


79 


CHAPTER VIII. 

REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 

The day had been longer and lonelier to Dorcas than 
the previous one, for then she had gone with Bertha to 
the train in Worcester, and after saying good-bye, had 
done some shopping in town and made a few calls be- 
fore returning home. She had then busied herself with 
clearing up Bertha’s room, which was not an altogether 
easy task. Bertha was never as orderly as her sister, 
and, in the confusion of packing, her room was in a 
worse condition than usual. But to clear it up was a 
labor of love, over which Dorcas lingered as long as 
possible. Then when all was done and she had closed 
the shutters and dropped the shades, she knelt by the 
white bed and amid a rain of tears prayed God to pro- 
tect the dear sister on sea and land and bring her safely 
back to the home which was so desolate without her. 
That was yesterday ; but to-day there had been com- 
paratively nothing to do, for after an early breakfast 
her father had started for Boylston, hoping to collect a 
debt which had long been due and the payment of 
which would help towards the mortgage. After he 
had gone and her morning work was done, Dorcas sat 
down alone in the great, lonely house and began to cry, 
wondering what she should do to pass the long hours 
before her father’s return. 

“ I wish I had Bertha’s room to straighten up again,” 
she thought. “ Any way I’ll go and look at it.” And, 
drying her eyes, she went up to the room, which seemed 


80 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


so dark and close and gloomy that she opened the 
windows and threw back the blinds, letting in the full 
sunlight and warm summer air. “ She was fond of air 
and sunshine,” she said to herself, remembering the 
many times they had differed on that point, she insist- 
ing that so much sun faded the carpets, and Bertha 
insisting that she would have it, carpets or no carpets. 
Bertha was fond of flowers, too, and in their season kept 
the house full of them. This Dorcas - also remembered, 
and, going to the garden, she gathered great clusters of 
roses and white lilies, which she arranged in two 
bouquets, putting one on the bureau and the other on 
the deep window-seat, where Bertha used to sit so often 
when at home, and where one of her favorite books was 
lying, with her work-basket and a bit of embroidery she 
had played at doing. The book and the basket Dorcas 
had left on the window-seat with something of the feel- 
ing which prompts us to keep the rooms of our dead as 
they left them. At the side of the bed and partly under 
it she had found a pair of half-worn slippers, which 
Bertha was in the habit of wearing at night while un- 
dressing, and these she had also left, they looked so 
much like Bertha, with their worn toes and high French 
heels. Now as she saw them she thought to put them 
away, but decided to leave them, as it was not likely 
any one would occupy the room in Bertha’s absence. 

“ There, it looks more cheerful now,” she said, sur- 
veying the apartment with its sunlight and flowers. 
Then, going down-stairs she whiled away the hours as 
best she could until it was time to prepare supper for 
her father, whose coming she watched for anxiously, 
hoping he would reach home before the storm which 
was fast gathering in the west and sending out flashes 


REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


81 


of lightning, with angry growls of .thunder. “ He will 
be hungry and tired, and I mean to give him his favor- 
ite dishes/’ she thought, as she busied herself in the 
kitchen. With a view to make his home-coming as 
pleasant as possible, she laid the table with the best 
cloth and napkins and the gilt band china, used only on 
great occasions, and put on a plate for Bertha, and a 
bowl of roses in the centre, with one or two buds at each 
plate, “ Now, that looks nice,” she thought, surveying 
her work, with a good deal of satisfaction, “ and father 
will be pleased. I wish he would come. How black 
the sky is getting, and how angry the clouds look !” 
Then she thought of Bertha on the sea, and wondered 
if the storm would reach her, and was silently praying 
that it would not, when she saw old Bush and the buggy 
pass the windows, and in a few moments her father 
came in looking very pale and tired. He had had a 
long ride for nothing, as the man who owed him could 
not pay, but he brightened at once when he saw the 
attractive tea-table and divined why all the best things 
were out. 

“ You are a good girl, Dorcas, and I don’t know what 
I should do without you now,” he said, stroking Dorcas's 
hair caressingly, and adding, “ Now let us have supper. 
I am hungry as a bear, as Bertha would say.” 

Dorcas started to leave the room just as she heard the 
sound of the bell and knew the electric car was coming 
up the hill. Though she had seen it so many times, she 
always stopped to look at it, and she stopped now and 
saw Reginald alight from it and saw the conductor 
point towards their house as if directing him to it. 
“ Who can it be ?” she thought, calling her father to the 
window, where they both stood watching the stranger 


82 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


as he came slowly along the avenue. “ How queerly he 
acts, stopping so much to look around ! Don’t he know 
it is beginning to rain ?” she said, just as the crash and 
downpour came which sent Rex flying towards the 
house. 

“Oh, father !” Dorcas exclaimed, clutching his arm, 
“don’t you know, Mr. Gorham wrote that the New 
Yorker who wanted to buy our farm might come to 
look at it ? T believe this is he. What shall we do with 
him ? Bertha told us to shut the door in his face.” 

“ You would hardly keep a dog out in a storm like 
this. Why, I can’t see across the road. I never knew 
it rain so fast,” Mr. Leighton replied, as Rex’s knock 
sounded on the door, which Dorcas opened just as a 
vivid flash of lightning lit up the sky and was followed 
instantaneously by a deafening peal of thunder and a 
dash of rain which swept half-way down the hall. 

“ Oh, my !” Dorcas said, holding back her dress ; and 
“ Great Scott !” Rex exclaimed, as he sprang inside and 
helped her close the door. Then, turning to her, he 
said, with a smile which disarmed her at once of any 
prejudice she might have against him, “ I beg your 
pardon for coming in so unceremoniously. 1 should 
have been drenched in another minute. Does Mr. 
Leighton live here ?” 

Dorcas said he did, and, opening a door to her right, 
bade him enter. Glancing in, Rex felt sure it was the 
best room, and drew back, saying, apologetically, “ I 
am not fit to go in there, or indeed to go anywhere. I 
believe I am wet to the skin. Look,” and he pointed to 
the little puddles of water which had dripped from his 
coat and were running over the floor. 

His concern was so genuine, and the eyes so kind 


REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


83 


which looked at Dorcas, that he did not seem like a 
stranger, and she said to him,.“ I should say you were 
wet. You’d better take off your coat and let me dry it 
by the kitchen fire or you will take cold.” 

“ She is a motherly little girl, as Phineas Jones said,” 
Rex thought, feeling sure that this was not the one 
who was “ handsome as blazes,” but the nice one, who 
thought of everything, and if his first smile had not 
won her his second would have done so, as he said, 
“ Thanks. You are very kind, but I’ll not trouble you 
to do that, and perhaps I’d better introduce myself. I 
am Reginald Hallam, from New York, and my father 
used to live here.” 

“ Oh-h !” Dorcas exclaimed, her fear of the dreaded 
stranger who was coming to buy their farm vanishing 
at once, while she wondered in a vague way where she 
had heard the name before, but did not associate it 
with Louie Thurston’s hero, of whom Bertha had told 
her. 

He was one of the Hallams, of whom the old people 
in town thought so much, and it was natural that he 
should wish to see the old Homestead. At this point 
Mr. Leighton came into the hall and was introduced to 
the stranger, whom he welcomed cordially, while 
Dorcas, with her hospitable instincts in full play, again 
insisted that he should remove his wet coat and shoes 
before he took cold. 

“They are a little damp, that’s a fact ; but what can 
I do without them ?” Reginald replied, beginning to feel 
very uncomfortable, and knowing that in all probability 
a sore throat would be the result of his bath. 

“ I’ll tell you,” Dorcas said, looking at her father. 
“ He can wear the dressing-gown and slippers Bertha 


84 


MBS. HALLAM S COMPANION. 


gave you last Christmas.” And before Rex could stop 
her she was off up-stairs in her father’s bedroom, from 
which she returned with a pair of Turkish slippers and 
a soft gray cashmere dressing-gown with dark-blue vel- 
vet collar and cuffs. 

“ Father never wore them but a few times ; he says 
they are too fine,” she said to Rex, who, much against 
his will, soon found himself arrayed in Mr. Leighton’s 
gown and slippers, while Dorcas carried his wet coat and 
shoes in triumph to the kitchen fire. 

“Well, this is a lark,” Rex thought as he caught sight 
of himself in the glass. “ I wonder what Phineas Jones 
would say if he knew that instead of being taken for a 
confidence man I’m received as a son and a brother and 
dressed up in ‘ the Square’s ’ best clothes.” 

Supper was ready by this time, and without any de- 
mur, which he knew would be useless, Rex sat down to 
the table which Dorcas had made so pretty, rejoicing 
now that she had done so, wondering if their guest 
would notice it, and feeling glad that he was in Bertha’s 
chair. He did notice everything, and especially the 
flowers and the extra seat, which he occupied, and which 
he knew was not put there for him, but probably for 
the handsome girl, who would come in when the storm 
was over, and he found himself thinking more of her 
than of the blessing which Mr. Leighton asked so rev- 
erently, adding a petition that God would care for the 
loved one wherever and in whatever danger she might 
be. 

“ Maybe that’s the girl ; but where the dickens can 
she be that she’s in danger ?” Rex thought, just as a 
clap of thunder louder than any which had preceded 


REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


85 


it shook the house and made Dorcas turn pale as she 
said to her father : 

“ Oh, do you suppose it will reach her ?” 

“ I think not,” Mr. Leighton replied ; then turning to 
Rex, he said, “ My youngest daughter, Bertha, is on the 
sea, — sailed on the Teutonic this morning, — and Dorcas 
is afraid the storm may reach her.’* 

“Sailed this morning on the Teutonic!” Rex re- 
peated. “ So did my aunt, Mrs. Carter Hallam.” 

“ Mrs. Carter Hallam !” and Dorcas set down her cup 
of tea with such force that some of it was spilled upon the 
snowy cloth. “ Why, that is the name of the lady with 
whom Bertha has gone as companion.” 

“ It was Rex's turn now to be surprised, and explana- 
tions followed. 

“ I supposed all the Hallams of Leicester were dead, 
and never thought of associating Mrs. Carter with 
them,” Mr. Leighton said, while Rex in turn explained 
that as Miss Leighton’s letter had been written in Bos- 
ton and he had addressed her there for his aunt it did 
not occur to him that her home was here at the Home- 
stead. 

“ Did you see her on the ship, and was she well ?” 
Dorcas asked, and he replied that, as he reached the 
steamer only in time to say good-bye to his aunt, he did 
not see Miss Leighton, but he knew she was there and 
presumably well. 

“ I am sorry now that I did not meet her,” he added, 
looking more closely at Dorcas than he had done before, 
and trying to trace some resemblance between her and 
the photograph he had dubbed Squint-Eye. 

But there was none, and he felt a good deal puzzled, 
wondering what Phineas meant by calling Dorcas 


86 


MRS. HALL AM S COMPANION. 


“ handsome as blazes.” She must be the one referred 
to, for no human being could ever accuse Squint-Eye of 
any degree of beauty. And yet how the father and sis- 
ter loved her, and how the old man’s voice trembled 
when he spoke of her, always with pride it seemed to 
Rex, who began at last himself to feel a good deal of 
interest in her. He knew now that he was occupying 
her seat, and that the rose-bud he had fastened in his 
button-hole was put there for her, and he hoped his 
aunt would treat her well. 

“ I mean to write and give her some points, for there’s 
no guessing what Mrs. Walker Haynes may put her up 
to do,” he thought, just as he caught the name of 
Phineas and heard Mr. Leighton saying to Dorcas : 

“ I saw him this morning, and he thinks he will get 
up in the course of a week and do the plastering.” 

“ Not before a week ! How provoking !” Dorcas re- 
plied, while Rex ventured to say : 

“Are you speaking of Phineas Jones? I made his 
acquaintance this morning, or rather he made mine. 
Quite a character, isn’t he ?” 

“ I should say he was,” Dorcas replied, while her 
father rejoined : 

“ Everybody knows Phineas, and everybody likes 
him. He is nobody’s enemy but his own, and shiftless- 
ness is his great fault. He can do almost everything, 
and do it well, too. He’ll work a few weeks, — maybe a 
few months, — and then lie idle, visiting and talking, till 
he has spent all he earned. He knows everybody’s 
business and history, and will sacrifice everything for 
his friends. He attends every camp- meeting he can 
hear of, and is apt to lose his balance and have what he 
calls the power. He comes here quite often, and is 


fcEX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


8? 

Very handy in fixing up. I’ve got a little job waiting 
for him now, where the plastering fell off in the front 
chamber, and I dare say it will continue to wait. But 
I like the fellow, and am sorry for him. I don’t know 
that he has a relative in the world.” 

Rex could have told of his Aunt Lucy, and that 
through her, Phineas claimed relationship to himself, 
but concluded not to open up a subject which he knew 
would be obnoxious to his aunt. Supper was now over, 
but the rain was still falling heavily, and when Rex 
asked how far it was to the hotel, both Mr. Leighton 
a*nd Dorcas invited him so cordially to spend the night 
with them, that he decided to do so, and then began to 
wonder how he should broach the real object of his 
visit. From all Phineas had told him, and from what;, 
he had seen of Mr. Leighton, he began to be doubtful of 
success, but it was worth trying for, and he was ready 
to offer fifteen hundred dollars extra, if necessary. His 
coat and shoes were dry by this time, and habited in 
them he felt more like himself, and after Dorcas had 
removed her apron, showing that her evening work was 
done, and had taken her .seat near her father, he said : 

“ By the way, did Mr. Gorham ever write to you that 
a New Yorker would like to buy your farm ?” 

“Yes,” Mr. Leighton replied, and Rex continued : 

“ I am the man,, and that is my business here.” 

“ Oh !” and Dorcas moved uneasily in her chair, 
while her father answered, “ I thought so.” 

Then there was a silence, which Rex finally broke, 
telling why he wanted that particular farm and what he 
was willing to give for it, knowing before he finished 
that he had failed. The farm was not for sale, except 
under compulsion, which Mr. Leighton hoped might be 


MRS. hallam’s companion 


88 

avoided, explaining matters so minutely that Rex had d 
tolerably accurate knowledge of the state of affairs and 
knew why the daughter had gone abroad as his aunt’s 
companion, in preference to remaining in the employ of 
Swartz & Co. 

“ Confound it, if I hadn’t insisted upon aunt’s offering 
five hundred instead of three hundred, as she proposed 
doing, Bertha would not have gone, and I might have 
got the place,” he thought. 

Mr. Leighton continued, “ I think it would kill me 
to lose the home where I have lived so long, but if it 
must be sold, I’d rather you should have it than any one 
I know, and if worst comes to worst, and anything hap- 
pens to Bertha, I’ll let you know in time to buy it.” 

He looked so white and his voice shook so as he talked 
that Rex felt his castles and fox-hunts all crumbling 
together, and, with his usual impulsiveness, began to 
wonder if Mr.' Leighton would accept aid from him in 
case of an emergency. It was nearly ten o’clock by this 
time, and Mr. Leighton said, “ I suppose this is early for 
city folks, but in the country we retire early, and I am 
tired. We always have prayers at night. Bring the 
books, daughter, and we’ll sing the 267th hymn.” 

Dorcas did as she was bidden, and, offering a Hymnal 
to Rex, opened an old-fashioned piano and began to play 
and sing, accompanied by her father, whose trembling 
voice quavered along until he reached the words, — 

" Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee 
For those in peril on the sea.” 

Then he broke down entirely, while Dorcas soon fol- 
lowed, and Rex was left to finish alone, which he did 


REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


S9 


Without the slightest hesitancy. He had a rich tenor 
voice ; taking up the air where Dorcas dropped it, he 
sang the hymn to the end, while Mr. Leighton stood 
with closed eyes and a rapt expression on his face. 

“ I wish Bertha could hear that. Let us pray,” he 
said, when the song was ended, and, before he quite 
knew what he was doing, Rex found himself on his 
knees, listening to Mr. Leighton’s fervent prayer, which 
closed with the petition for the safety of those upon the 
deep. t 

As Rex had told Phineas Jones, he was not a profes- 
sor, and he did not call himself a very religious man. He 
attended church every Sunday morning with his aunt, 
went through the services reverently, and listened to 
the sermon attentively, but not all the splendors of St. 
Thomas’s Church had ever impressed him as did that 
simple, homely service in the farm-house among the 
Leicester hills, where his “Amen” to the prayer for 
those upon the sea was loud and distinct, and included 
in it not only his aunt and Bertha, but also the girl 
whom he had knocked down, who seemed to haunt him 
strangely. 

“ If I were to have much of this, Phineas would not be 
obliged to take me to one of his meetings to convert 
me,” he thought, as he arose from his knees and signi- 
fied his readiness to retire. 


90 


MBS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


CHAPTER IX. 

REX MAKES DISCOVERIES. 

It was Mr. Leighton who conducted Rex to hissleep- 
ing-room, saying, as he put the lamp down upon the 
dressing-bureau : “ There’s a big patch of plaster off in 
the best chamber, where the girls put company, so you 
are to sleep in here. This is Bertha’s room.” 

Rex became interested immediately. To occupy a 
young girl’s room, even if that girl were Squint-Eye, 
was a novel experience, and after Mr. Leighton had said 
good-night he began to look about with a good deal of 
curiosity. Everything was plain, but neat and dainty, 
from the pretty matting and soft fur rug on the floor, to 
the bed which looked like a white pin-cushion, with its 
snowy counterpane and fluted pillow-shams. 

“ It is just the room a nice kind of a girl would be 
apt to have, and it doesn’t seem as if a great, hulking 
fellow like me ought to be in it,” he said, fancying he 
could detect a faint perfume such as he knew some girls 
affected. “ I think, though, it’s the roses and lilies. I 
don’t believe Squint-Eye goes in for Lubin and Pinaud 
and such like,” he thought, just as he caught sight of the 
slippers, which Dorcas had forgotten to remove when 
she arranged the room for him. 

“ Halloo ! here are Cinderella’s shoes, as I live,” he 
said, taking one of them up and handling it gingerly as if 
afraid he should break it. “ French heels ; and, by Jove, 
she’s got a small foot, and a well-shaped one, too. I 
wouldn’t have thought that of Squint-Eye,” he said, 


HEX MAKES DISCOVERIES. 


91 


with a feeling that the girl he called Squint-Eye had 
no right either in the room or in the slipper, which he 
put down carefully, and then continued his investiga- 
tions, coming next to the window-seat, where the work- 
basket and book were lying. “ Embroiders, I see. 
Wouldn’t be a woman if she didn’t,” he said, as he 
glanced at the bit of fancy work left in the basket. 
Then his eye caught the book, which he took up and 
saw was a volume of Tennyson, which showed a 
good deal of usage. “ Poetical, too ! Wouldn’t have 
thought that of her, either. She doesn’t look it.” Then 
turning to the fly-leaf, he read, “ Bertha Leighton. 
From her cousin Louie. Christmas, 18 — .” 

“ By George,” he exclaimed, “that is Louie Thurs- 
ton’s handwriting. Not quite as scrawly as it was 
when we wrote the girl and boy letters to each other, 
but the counterpart of the note she sent me last sum- 
mer in Saratoga, asking me to ride with her and Fred. 
And she calls herself cousin to this Bertha ! I remem- 
ber now she once told me she had some relatives North. 
They must be these Leightons, and I have come here to 
find them and aunt’s companion too. Truly the world 
is very small. Poor little Louie ! I don’t believe she 
is happy. No woman could be that with Fred, if he is 
my friend. Poor little Louie !” 

There was a world of pathos and pity in Rex’s voice 
as he said, “ Poor little Louie !” and stood looking at 
her handwriting and thinking of the beautiful girl whom 
he might perhaps have won for his own. But if any 
regret for what might have been mingled with his 
thoughts, he gave no sign of it, except that the expres- 
sion of his face was a shade more serious as he put the 
book back in its place and prepared for bed, where he 


92 


MRS. hallam's companion. 


lay awake a long' time, thinking of Louie, and Squint- 
Eye, and the girl he had knocked down on the ship, and 
Rose Arabella Jefferson, whose face was the last he re- 
membered before going to sleep. 

The next morning was bright and fair, with no trace 
of the storm visible except in the freshened foliage and 
the puddles of water standing here and there in the road, 
and Rex, as he looked from his window upon the green 
hills and valleys, felt a pang of disappointment that the 
place he so coveted could never be his. Breakfast was 
waiting when he went down to the dining-room, and 
while at the table he spoke of Louie and asked if she 
were not a cousin. 

“ Oh, yes,” Dorcas said, quickly, a little proud of this 
grand relation. “ Louie’s mother and ours were sisters. 
She told Bertha she knew you. Isn’t she lovely ?” 

Rex said she was lovely, and that he had known her 
since she was a child, and had been in college with her 
husband. Then he changed the conversation by inquir- 
ing about the livery-stables in town. He would like, 
he said, to drive about the neighborhood a little before 
returning to New York, and see the old cemetery 
where so many Hallams were buried. 

“ Horses enough, but you’ve got to walk into^own to 
get them. If old Bush will answer your purpose you 
are quite welcome to him,” Mr. Leighton said. 

“ Thanks,” Rex replied. “ I am already indebted to 
you for so much that I may as well be indebted for 
more. I will take old Bush, and perhaps Miss Leigh- 
ton will go with me as a guide.” 

This Dorcas was quite willing to do, and the two were 
soon driving together through the leafy woods and 
pleasant roads and past the old houses, where the 


REX MAKES DISCOVERIES. 


93 


people came to the doors and windows to see what fine 
gentleman Dorcas Leighton had with her. Every one 
whom they met spoke to Dorcas and inquired for 
Bertha, in whom all seemed greatly interested. 

“ Your sister must be very popular. This is the 
thirteenth person who has stopped you to ask for her,” 
Rex said, as an old Scotchman finished his inquiries by 
saying, “ She’s a bonnie lassie, God bless her.” 

“ She is popular, and deservedly so. I wish you 
knew her,” was Dorcas’s reply ; and then as a convic- 
tion, born he knew not when or why, kept increasing in 
Rex’s mind, he asked, “Would you mind telling me 
how she looks ? Is she dark or fair ? tall or short ? fat 
or lean ? 

Dorcas answered unhesitatingly, “ She is very beau- 
tiful, — neither fat nor lean, tall nor short, dark nor fair, 
but just right.” 

“ Oh-h !” and Rex drew a long breath as Dorcas went 
on : “ She has a lovely complexion, with brilliant color, 
perfect features, reddish-brown hair with glints of gold 
in it in the sunlight, and the handsomest eyes you ever 
saw, — large and bright and almost black at times when 
she is excited or pleased, — long lashes, and carries her- 
self like a queen.” 

“ Oh-h !” Rex said again, knowing that Rose Arabella 
Jefferson had fallen from her pedestal of beauty and 
was really the Squint-Eye of whom he had thought so 
derisively. “ Have you a photograph of her ?” he asked, 
and Dorcas replied that she had and would show it to 
him if he liked. 

They had now reached home, and, bringing out an old 
and well-filled album, Dorcas pointed to a photograph 
which Rex recognized as a facsimile of the one his aunt 


94 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


had insisted belonged to Miss Jefferson. He could not 
account for the peculiar sensations which swept over 
him and kept deepening in intensity as he looked at the 
face which attracted him more now than when he be- 
lieved it that of Rose Arabella of Scotsburg. 

“ I wish you would let me have this. I am a regular 
photo-fiend, — have a stack of them at home, and would 
like mightily to add this to the lot,” he said, remember- 
ing that the one he had was defaced with Rose Ara- 
bella’s name. 

But Dorcas declined. “ Bertha would not like it,” 
she said, taking the album from him quickly, as if she 
read his thoughts and feared lest he would take the 
picture whether she were willing or not. 

It was now time for Rex to go, if he would catch the 
next car for Worcester. After thanking Mr. Leighton 
and Dorcas for their hospitality and telling them to be 
sure and let him know whenever they came to New 
York, so that he might return their kindness, he bade 
them good-bye, with a feeling that although he had lost 
his fancy farm and fox hunts, he had gained two valua- 
ble friends. 

“They are about the nicest people I ever met,” he 
said, as he walked down the avenue. “ Couldn’t have 
done more if I had been related. I ought, to have told 
them to come straight to our house if they were 
ever in New York, and I would if it were mine. But 
Aunt Lucy wouldn’t like it. I wonder she didn’t tell 
me about the mistake in the photographs when I was 
on the ship. Maybe she didn’t think of it, I saw her so 
short a time. I remember, though, that she did say 
that Miss Leighton was rather too high and mighty, 
and, by George, I told her to sit down on her ! I have 


AT AIX-LES-BA INS. 


95 


made a mess of it ; but I will write at once and go over 
sooner than I intended, for there is no telling what 
Mrs. Haynes may put my aunt up to do. I will not 
have that girl snubbed ; and if I find them at it, 
I’ll ” 

Here he gave an energetic flourish of his cane in the 
air to attract the conductor of the fast-coming car, and 
posterity will never know what he intended doing to 
his aunt and Mrs. Walker Haynes, if he found them 
snubbing that girl. 


CHAPTER X. 

AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 

There was a stop of a few days at the Metropole in 
London, where Mrs. Hallam engaged a courier ; there 
was another stop at the Grand in Paris, where a ladies’ 
maid was secured ; and, thus equipped, Mrs. Hallam 
felt that she was indeed traveling en p?'ince as she 
journeyed on to Aix, where Mrs. Walker Haynes met 
her at the station with a very handsome turnout, which 
was afterwards included in Mrs Hallam’s bill. 

“ I knew you would not care to go in the ’bus with 
your servants, so I ventured to order the carriage for 
you,” she said, as they wound up the steep hill to the 
Hotel Splendide. 

Then she told what she had done for her friend’s com- 
fort and the pleasure it had been to do it, notwithstand- 
ing all the trouble and annoyance she had been 


96 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


subjected to. The season was at its height, and all the 
hotels were crowded, especially the Splendide. A 
grande duchesse with her suite occupied the guest- 
rooms on the first floor ; the King of Greece had all the 
second floor south of the main entrance ; while English, 
Jews, Spaniards, Greeks, and Russians had the rooms 
at the other end of the hall ; consequently Mrs. Hallam 
must be content with the third floor, where a salon and 
a bedchamber, with balcony attached, had been re- 
served for her. She had found the most trouble with 
the salon, she said, as a French countess was determined 
to have it, and she had secured it only by engaging it 
at once two weeks ago and promising more per day 
than the countess was willing to give for it. As it had 
to be paid for whether occupied or not, she had taken 
the liberty to use it herself, knowing her friend would 
not care. Mrs. Hallam didn’t care, even when later on 
she found that the salon had been accredited to her 
since she first wrote to Mrs. Haynes that she was com- 
ing and asked her to secure rooms. She was accus- 
tomed to being fleeced by Mrs. Haynes, whom Rex 
called a second Becky Sharp. The salon business being 
settled, Mrs. Haynes ventured farther and said that as 
she had been obliged to dismiss her maid and had had 
so much trouble to fill her place she had finally decided 
to wait until her friend came, when possibly the services 
of one maid would answer for both ladies. 

“ Gracie prefers to wait upon herself,” she continued, 
“ but I find it convenient at times to have some one do 
my hair and lay out my dresses and go with me to the 
baths, which I take about ten ; you, no doubt, who have 
plenty of money, will go down early in one of those 
covered chairs which two men bring to your room. 


AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 


97 


It is a most comfortable way of doing, as you are 
wrapped in a blanket quite en dhhabille and put into a 
chair, the curtains are dropped, and you are taken to 
the bath and back in time for your first dejedner , and are 
all through with the baths early and can enjoy yourself 
the rest of the day. It is rather expensive, of course, 
and I cannot afford it, but all who can, do. The Scran- 
toms from New York, the Montgomerj^s from Boston, 
the Harwoods from London, and old Lady Gresham, all 
go down that way ; quite a high-toned procession, 
which some impertinent American girls try to kodak. 
I shall introduce you to these people. They know you 
are coming, and you are sure to like them.” 

Mrs. Haynes knew just what chord to touch with her 
ambitious friend, who was as clay in her hands. By 
the time the hotel was reached it had been arranged 
that she was not only to continue to use the salon, but 
was also welcome to the services of Mrs. Hallam’s maid, 
Celine, and her courier, Browne, and possibly her com- 
panion, although on this point she was doubtful, as the 
girl had a mind of her own and was not easily man- 
aged. 

“ I saw that in her face the moment I looked at her, 
and thought she might 'give you trouble. She really 
looked as if she expected me to speak to her. Who is 
she ?” Mrs. Haynes asked, and very briefly Mrs. Hallam 
told all she knew of her, — of the mistake in the photo- 
graphs, of Reginald’s admiration of the one which was 
really Bertha’s, and of his encounter with her on the 
ship. 

“ Hm ; yes,” Mrs. Walker rejoined, reflectively, and 
in an instant her tactics were resolved upon. 

Possessed of a large amount of worldly wisdom and 


98 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


foresight, she boasted that she could read the end from 
the beginning, and on this occasion her quick instincts 
told her that, given a chance, this hired companion 
might come between her and her plan of marrying her 
daughter Grace to Rex Hallam, who was every way 
desirable as a son-in-law. She had seen enough of him 
to know that if he cared fora girl it would make no dif- 
ference whether she were a wage-earner or the daughter 
of a duke, and Bertha might prove a formidable rival. 
He had admired her photograph and been kind to her 
on the boat, and when he met her again there was no 
knowing what complications might arise if, as was most 
probable, Bertha herself were artful and ambitious. 
And so, for no reason whatever except her own petty 
jealousy, she conceived a most unreasonable dislike for 
the girl ; and when Mrs. Haynes was unreasonable she 
sometimes was guilty of acts of which she was afterwards 
ashamed. 

Arrived at the hotel, which the ’bus had reached 
before her, she said to Bertha, who was standing near 
the door, Take your mistress’s bag and shawl up to 
the third floor, No. — , and wait there for us.” 

Bertha knew it was Celine’s place to do this, but that 
demoiselle, who thus far had not proved the treasure 
she was represented to be, had found an acquaintance, 
to whom she was talking so volubly that she did not 
observe the entrance of her party until Bertha was half- 
way up the three flights of stairs, with Mrs. Hallam’s 
bag and wrap as well as her own. 'The service at the 
Splendide was not the best, and those who would wait 
upon themselves were welcome to do so, and Bertha toiled 
on with her arms full, while Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. 


AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 


99 


Haynes took the little coop of a lift and ascended very 
leisurely. 

“ This is your room. I hope you will like it,” Mrs. 
Haynes said, stopping at the open door of a large, airy 
j room, with a broad window opening upon a balcony, 
where a comfortable easy-chair was standing. Mrs. 
Hallam sank into it at once, admiring the view and 
pleased w T ith everything. The clerk at the office had 
handed her a letter which had come in the morning 
mail. It was from Rex, and was full of his visit to the 
Homestead, the kindness he had received from Mr. 
Leighton and Dorcas, and the discovery he had made 
with regard to Bertha. 

“ I wonder you didn’t tell me on the ship that I was 
right and you wrong,” he wrote. “ You did say, though, 
that she was high and mighty, and I told you to sit on her. 
But don’t you do it ! She is a lady by birth and educa- 
tion, and I want you to treat her kindly and not let Mrs. 
Haynes bamboozle you into snubbing her because she is 
your companion. I sha’n’t like it if you do, for it will be 
an insult to the Leightons and a shame to us.” Then 
he added, “ At the hotel in Worcester I fell in with a 
fellow who claimed to be a fortieth cousin of yours, 
Phineas Jones. Do you remember him ? Great char- 
acter. Called 3 r ou cousin Lucy Ann, — said you spelled 
him down at a spelling-match on the word ‘ dammed,’ 
and that he was going to call when you got home. I 
didn’t give him our address.” 

After reading this the view from the balcony did not 
look so charming or the sunlight so bright, and there 
was a shadow on Mrs. Hallam’s face caused not so much 
by what Rex had written of the Homestead as by his 
encounter with Phineas Jones, her abomination. Why 


100 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


had he, of all possible persons, turned up ? And what 
else had he told Rex of her besides the spelling- 
episode ? Everything, probably, and more than every- 
thing, for she remembered well Phineas’s loquacity, 
which sometimes carried him into fiction. And he 
talked of calling upon her, too ! “ The wretch !” she 

said, crushing the letter in her hands, as she would have 
liked to crush the offending Phineas. 

“ No bad news, I hope ?” Mrs. Haynes said, stepping 
upon the balcony and noting the change in her friend’s 
expression. 

Mrs. Hallam, who w T ould have died sooner than tell 
of Phineas Jones, answered, “ Oh, no. Rex has been 
to the Homestead and found out about Bertha, over 
whom he is wilder than ever, saying I must be kind to 
her and all that ; as if I would be anything else.” 

“ Hm ; yes,” Mrs. Haynes replied, an expression which 
always meant a great deal with her, and which in this 
case meant a greater dislike to Bertha and a firmer 
resolve to humiliate her. 

It was beginning to grow dark by this time. Re- 
entering her room, Mrs. Hallam asked, “Where is 
Celine ? I want her to open my trunk and get out a 
cooler dress ; this is so hot and dusty.” 

But Celine was not forthcoming, and Bertha was 
summoned in her place. At the Metropole Bertha had 
occupied a stuffy little room looking into a court, while 
at the Grand in Paris she had slept in what she called a 
closet, so that now she felt as if in Paradise when she 
took possession of her room, which, if small and at the 
rear, looked out upon grass and flowers and the tall 
hills which encircle Aix on all sides. 

“ This is delightful,” she thought, as she leaned from 


AT AIX-LES-BAIKS. 


101 


the window inhaling the perfume of the flowers and 
drinking in the sweet, pure air which swept down the 
green hill-side, where vines and fruits were growing. 
She, too, had found a letter waiting for her from 
Dorcas, who detailed every particular of Reginald’s 
visit to the Homestead, and dwelt at some length upon 
his evident admiration of Bertha’s photograph and his 
desire to have it. 

“ I don’t pretend to have your psychological presenti- 
ments,” Dorcas wrote, “ but if I had I should say that 
Mr. Hallam would admire you when he sees you quite 
as much as he did your picture, and I know you will 
like him. You cannot help it. He will join you before 
long.” 

Bertha knew better than Dorcas that she should like 
Rex Hallam, and something told her that her life after 
he came would be different from what it was now. For 
Mrs. Hallam she had but little respect, she was so 
thoroughly selfish and exacting, but she did not dislike 
her with the dislike she had conceived in a moment for 
Mrs. Haynes, in whom she had intuitively recognized a 
foe, who would tyrannize over and humiliate her worse 
than her employer. During her climb upstairs she had 
resolved upon her course of conduct towards the lady 
should she attempt to browbeat her. 

“ I will do my best to please Mrs. Hallam, but I will 
not be subject to that woman,” she thought, just as 
some one knocked, and in response to her “ Come in,” 
Mrs. Haynes appeared, saying, “ Leighton, Mrs. Hal- 
lam wants you.” 

“ Madam, if you are speaking to me, I am Miss Leigh- 
ton , ,” Bertha said, while her eyes flashed so angrily that 
for a moment Mrs. Haynes lost her self command and 


i02 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


stammered an apology, saying she was so accustomed 
to hearing the English employees called by their last 
names that she had inadvertently acquired the habit. 

There was a haughty inclination of Bertha’s head in 
token that she accepted the apology, and then the two, 
between whom there was now war, went to Mrs. Hal- 
lam’s room, where Bertha unlocked a trunk and took 
out a fresher dress. While she was doing this, Mrs. 
Hallatn again stepped out upon the balcony with Mrs. 
Haynes, who said : 

“ It is too late for tablc-d'hdte, but I have ordered a 
nice little extra dinner for you and me, to be served in 
our salon. I thought you’d like it better there the first 
night. Grace has dined and gone to the Casino with a 
party of English, who have rooms under us. The king 
is to be there.” 

“ Do you know him well ?” Mrs. Hallam asked, pleased 
at the possibility of hobnobbing with royalty. 

“ Ye-es — no-o. W T ell, he has bowed to me, but I have 
not exactly spoken to him yet,” was Mrs. Haynes’s re- 
ply, and then she went on hurriedly, “ I have engaged 
seats for lunch and dinner for you, Grace and myself 
in the salle-a-manger, near Lady Gresham’s party, and 
also a small table in a corner of the breakfast-room 
where we can be quite private and take our coffee to- 
gether, when you do not care to have it in your salon. 
Grace insists upon going down in the morning, and of 
course, I must go with her.” 

“You are very kind,” Mrs. Hallam said, thinking 
how nice it was to have all care taken from her, while 
Mrs. Haynes continued : 

“ Your servants take their meals in the servants’ 
hall. Celine will naturally prefer to sit with her own 


AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 


103 


people, a,nd if you like I will arrange to have places re- 
served with the English for your courier and — and ” 

She hesitated a little, until Mrs. Hallam said, in some 
surprise : 

“ Do you mean Miss Leighton ?” 

Then she went on. “ Yes, the courier and Miss 
Leighton ; he seems a very respectable man, — quite 
superior to his class.” 

Here was a turn in affairs for which even Mrs. Hal- 
lam was not prepared. Heretofore Bertha had taken 
her meals with her, nor had she thought of a change ; 
but if Mrs. Walker Haynes saw fit to make one, it must 
be right. Still, there was Rex to be considered. 
Would he think this was treating Bertha as she should 
be treated ? She was afraid not, and she said, hesitat- 
ingly, “ Yes, but I am not sure Reginald would like it.” 

“ What has he to do with it, pray ?” Mrs. Haynes 
asked, quickly. 

Mrs. Hallam replied, “ Her family was very nice to 
him, and you know he wrote me to treat her kindly. I 
don’t think he would like to find her in the servants’ 
hall.” 

This was the first sign of rebellion Mrs. Haynes had 
ever seen in her friend, and she met it promptly. 

“ I do not see how you can do differently, if you ad- 
here to the customs of those with whom you wish to 
associate. Several English families have had com- 
panions, or governesses, or seamstresses, or something, 
and they have always gone to the servants’ hall. Lady 
Gresham has one there now. Miss Leighton may be 
all Reginald thinks she is, but if she puts herself in the 
position of an employee she must expect an employee’s 
fare, and not thrust herself upon first-class people. 


104 


MRS. hallam’s companion. 


You will only pay second-class for her if she goes 
there.” 

Lady Gresham and the English and paying second- 
class were influencing Mrs. Hallam mightily, but a 
dread of Rex, who when roused in the cause of oppres- 
sion would not be pleasant to meet, kept her hesitating, 
until Bertha herself settled the matter. She had heard 
the conversation, although it had been carried on in low 
tones and sometimes in whispers. At first she resolved 
that rather than submit to this indignity she would give 
up her position and go home ; then, remembering what 
Mrs. Hallam had said of Reginald, who was sure to be 
angry if he found her thus humiliated, she began to 
change her mind. 

“ I’ll do it,” she thought, while the absurdity of the 
thing grew upon her so fast that it began at last to look 
like a huge joke which she might perhaps enjoy. 
Going to the door, she said, while a proud smile played 
over her face, “ Ladies, I could not help hearing what 
you said, and as Mrs. Hallam seems undecided in the 
matter I will decide for her, and go to the servants’ 
hall, which I prefer. I have tried first-class people, and 
would like a chance to try the second.” 

She looked like a young queen as she stood in the 
doorway, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing 
with excitement, and Mrs. Haynes felt that for once she 
had met a foe worthy of her. 

“Yes, that will be best, and' I dare say you will find 
it very comfortable,” Mrs. Hallam said, admiring the 
girl as she had never admired her before, and thinking 
that before Rex came she would manage to make a 
change. 

That night, however, she had Bertha’s dinner sent to 


A.T AIX-LTCS-B A.INS. 


105 


htir room, and also made arrangements to have her 
coffee served there in the morning, so it was not until 
lunch that she had her first experience as second-class. 
The hall, which was not used for the servants of the 
house, who had their meals elsewhere, was a long room 
on the ground-floor, and there she found assembled a 
mixed company of nurses, maids, couriers, and valets, 
all talking together in a babel of tongues, English, 
French, German, Italian, Russian, and Greek, and all so 
earnest that they did not see the graceful young woman 
who, with a heightened color and eyes which shone like 
stars as they took in the scene, walked to the only va- 
cant seat she saw, which was evidently intended for her, 
as it was next the courier Browne. But when they did 
see her they became as silent as if the king himself had 
come into their midst, while Browne rose to his feet, 
and with a respectful bow held her chair for her until 
she was seated, and then asked what he should order for 
her. Browne, who was a respectable middle-aged man 
and had traveled extensively with both English and 
Americans, had seen that Bertha was superior to her 
employer, and had shown her many little attentions in 
a respectful way. He had heard from Celine that she 
was coming to the second salon, and resented it more, 
if possible, than Bertha herself, resolving to constitute 
himself her protector and shield her from every possi- 
ble annoyance. This she saw at once, and smiled grate- 
fully upon him. No one spoke to her, and silence 
reigned as she finished her lunch and then left the room 
with a bow in which all felt they were included. 

“ By Jove, Browne, who is that person, and how came 
she here ? She looks like a lady,” asked an English 
Valet, while two or three Frenchmen nearly lost their 


m 


MRS. HALL AM* S COMPANION. 


balance with their fierce gesticulations, as they clamored 
to know who the grande, mademoiselle was. 

Striking his fist upon the table to enforce silence, 
Browne said : 

“ She is a Miss Leighton, from America, and far 
more a lady than many of the bediamonded and be- 
satined trash above us. She is in my party as madam’s 
companion, and whoever is guilty of the least imperti- 
nence towards her in word or look will answer for it to 
me ; to me , do you understand ?” And he turned 
fiercely towards a wicked-looking little Frenchman, 
whose bad eyes had rested too boldly and too admir- 
ingly upon the girl. 

Mon Dieu , oui , oui, oui !” the man replied, and then in 
broken English asked, “ Why comes she here, if she be 
a lady ?” 

It was Celine who answered for Browne : 

“ Because her mistress is a cat, a nasty old cat, — as 
the English say. And there is a pair of them. I heard 
them last night saying she must be put down, and they 
have put her down here. I hate them, and mine most 
of all. She tries to get me cheap. She keeps me fly- 
fly. She gives me no pourboires. She sleeps me in a 
dog-kennel. Bah ! I stay not, if good chance come. 
L' Amlricaine hundred times more lady.” 

This voluble speech, which was interpreted by one to 
another until all had a tolerably correct idea of it, did 
not diminish the interest in Bertha, to whom after this 
every possible respect was paid, the men always rising 
with Browne when she entered the dining-hall and 
remaining standing until she was seated. Bertha was 
human, and such homage could not help pleasing her, 
although it came from those whose language she could 


AT AIX-LES-BAINS; 


107 


not understand, and who by birth and education w r ere 
greatly her inferiors. It was something to be the object 
of so much respect, and when, warmed by the bright 
smile she always gave them, the Greeks, and the 
Russians, and the Italians, not only rose when she 
entered the hall, but also when she passed them outside, 
if they chanced to be sitting, she felt that her life had 
some compensations, if it were one of drudgery and 
menial service. 

True to her threat, Celine left when a more desirable 
situation offered, and Mrs. Hallam did not fill her place. 
“ No need of it, so long as you have Miss Leighton and 
pay her what you do,” Mrs. Haynes said ; and so it 
came about that Bertha found herself companion in 
name only and waiting-maid in earnest, walking de- 
murely by the covered chair which each morning took 
Mrs. Hallam to her bath, combing that lady’s hair, 
mending and brushing her clothes, carrying messages, 
doing far more than Celine had done, and doing it so 
uncomplainingly that both Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. 
Haynes wondered at her. At last, however, when asked 
to accompany Mrs. Haynes to the bath, she rebelled. 
To serve her in that way was impossible, and she an- 
swered civilly, but decidedly, “No, Mrs. Hallam. I 
have done and will do whatever you require for your- 
self, but for Mrs. Haynes, nothing. She never spares an 
opportunity to humiliate me. I will not attend her to 
her bath. I will give up my place first.” That settled 
it, and Bertha was never again asked to wait upon Mrs. 
Haynes. 


108 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


CHAPTER XI. 

GRACE HAYNES. 

“ Bravo, Miss Leighton ! I did not suppose there was 
so much spirit in you, when I saw you darning madam’s 
stockings and buttoning her boots. You are a brick 
and positively I admire you. Neither mamma nor Mrs 
Hallam needs any one to go with them, any more than 
the sea needs water. But it is English, you know, to 
have an attendant, and such an attendant, too, as you. 
Yes, I admire you ! I respect you ! Our door was open, 
and I heard what you said ; so did mamma, and she is 
furious ; but I am glad to see one woman assert her 
rights.” 

It was Grace Haynes, who, coming from her bedroom, 
joined Bertha, as she was walking rapidly down the hall 
and said all this to her. Bertha had been nearly two 
weeks at Aix, and, although she had scarcely exchanged 
a word with Grace, she had often seen her, and remem- 
bering what Mrs. Hallam had said of her and Reginald, 
had looked at her rather critically. She was very thin 
and wiry, with a pale face, yellow hair worn short, large 
blue eyes, and a nose inclined to an upward curve. 
She was a kind-hearted, good-natured girl, of a pro- 
nounced type both in dress and manner and speech. 
She believed in a little slang, she said, because it gave a 
point to conversation, and she adored baccarat and 
rouge-et-noir, and a lot more things which her mother 
thought highly improper. She had heard all that her 
mother said of Bertha, and, quick to discriminate, she 


GRACE HAYNES. 


109 


had seen how infinitely superior she was to Mrs. Hallam 
and had felt drawn to her, but was too much absorbed 
in her own matters to have any time for a stranger. 
She was a natural flirt, and, although so plain, always 
managed to have, as she said, two or three idiots ' 
dangling on her string. Just now it was a young Eng- 
lishman, the grandson of old Lady Gresham, whom she 
had upon her string, greatly to the disgust of her mother, 
with whom she was not often in perfect accord. 

Linking her arm in Bertha’s as they went down the 
stairs, she continued, “ Are you going to walk ? I am, 
up the hill. Come with me. I’ve been dying to talk to 
you ever since you came, but have been so engaged, and 
you are always so busy with madam since Celine went 
away. Good pious work you must find it waiting on 
madam and mamma both ! I don’t see how you do it so 
sweetly. You must have a great deal of what they 
call inward and spiritual grace. I wish you’d give me 
some.” 

Grace was the first girl of her own age and nation who 
had spoken to Bertha since she left America, and she 
responded readily to the friendly advance. 

“I don’t believe I have any inward and spiritual 
grace to spare,” she said. “ I only do what I hired out 
to do. You know I must earn my wages.” 

“ Yes,” Grace answered, “ I know, and I wish I could 
earn wages, too. It would be infinitely more respect- 
able than the way we get our money.” 

“ How do you get it ?” Bertha asked, and Grace re- 
plied, “ Don’t you know? You have certainly heard of 
high-born English .dames who, for a consideration, un- 
dertake to hoist ambitious Americans into society ?” 

Bertha had heard of such things, and Grace con- 


110 


MRS. HALLAM 7 S COMPANION. 


tinued, “ Well, that is what mamma does at home on a 
smaller scale ; and she succeeds, too. Everybody 
knows Mrs. Walker Haynes, with blood so blue that 
indigo is pale beside it, and if she pulls a string for a 
puppet to dance, all the other puppets dance in unison. 
Sometimes she chaperons a party of young ladies, but as 
these give her a good deal of trouble, she prefers people 
like Mrs. Hallam, who without her would never get 
into society. Society ! I hate the word, with all it in- 
volves. Do you see that colt over there ?” and she 
pointed to a young horse in an adjoining field. “ Well, 
I am like that colt, kicking up its heels in a perfect 
abandon of freedom. But harness it to a cart, with 
thills and lines and straps and reins, and then apply the 
whip7 won’t it rebel with all its might ? And if it gets 
its feet over the traces .and breaks in the dash-board 
who can blame it ? I’m just like that colt. I hate that 
old go-giggle called society, which says you mustn’t do 
this and you must do that because it is or is not proper 
and Mrs. Grundy would be shocked. I like to shock 
her, and I’d rather take boarders than live as we do 
now. I’d do anything to earn money. That’s why I 
play at baccarat.” 

“ Baccarat !” Bertha repeated, with a little start. 

“ Yes, baccarat. Don’t try to pull away from me. I 
felt you,” Grace said, holding Bertha closer by the arm. 
“ You are Massachusetts born and have a lot of Mas- 
sachusetts notions, of course, and I fespect you for it, 
but I am Bohemian through and through. Wasn’t born 
anywhere in particular, and have been in your so-called 
first society all my life and detest it. We have a little 
income, and could live in the country with one servant 
comfortably, as so many people do ; but that would not 


GRACE HAYNES. 


Ill 


suit mamma, and so we go from pillar to post and live 
on other people, until I am ashamed. I am successful 
at baccarat. They say the old gent who tempted Eve 
helps new beginners at cards, and I believe he helps me, 
I win so often. I know it isn’t good form, but what can 
I do ? If I don’t play baccarat there’s nothing left for 
me but to marry, and that I never shall.” 

“ Why not ?” Bertha asked, becoming more and more 
interested in the strange girl talking so confidentially 
to her. 

“ Why not ?” Grace repeated. “ That shows that you 
are not in it, — the swim, I mean. Don’t you know that 
few young men nowadays can afford to marry a poor 
girl and support her in her extravagance and laziness ? 
She must have money to get any kind of a show, and 
that I haven’t, — nor beauty either, like you, whose face 
is worth a fortune. Don’t say it isn’t ; don’t fib,” she 
continued, as Bertha tried to speak. “You know you 
are beautiful, with a grande-duchesse air which makes 
everybody turn to look at you, even the king. I saw 
him, and I've seen those Russians and Greeks, who are 
here with some high cockalorums, take off their hats 
when you came near them. Celine told me how they all 
stand up when you enter the salle-a-manger. I call that 
genuine homage, which I’d give a good deal to have.” 

She had let go Bertha’s arm and was walking a little 
in advance, when she stopped suddenly, and, turning 
round, said, “ I wonder what you will think of Rex 
Hallam.” 

Bertha made no reply, and she went on : “I know 
I am talking queerly, but I must let myself out to some 
one. Rex is coming before long, and you will know 
then, if you don’t now, that mamma is moving heaven 


112 


MKS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


and earth to make a match between us ; but she never 
will. I am not his style, and he is far more likely to 
marry you than me. I have known him for years, and 
could get up a real liking for him if it would be of any 
use, but it wouldn’t. He doesn’t want a washed-out, 
yellow-haired girl like me. Nobody does, unless it’s 
Jack Travis, old Lady Gresham’s grandson, with no 
prospects and only a hundred pounds a year and an 
orange grove in Florida, which he never saw, and which 
yields nothing, for want of proper attention. He says 
he would like to go out there and rough it ; that he does 
not like being tied to his grandmother’s apron-strings ; 
and that, give him a chance, he would gladly work. I 
have two hundred dollars a year more. Do you think 
we could live on that and the climate ?” 

They had been retracing their steps, and were near 
the hotel, where they met the young Englishman in 
question, evidently looking for Miss Haynes. He was 
a shambling, loose-jointed young man, but he had a 
good face, and there was a ring in his voice which Ber- 
tha liked, as he spoke first to Grace and then to herself, 
as Grace presented him to her. Knowing that as a 
third party she was in the way, Bertha left them and 
went into the hotel, while they went down into the town, 
where they stayed so long that Lady Gresham and Mrs. 
Haynes began to get anxious as to their whereabouts. 
Both ladies knew of the intimacy between the young 
people, and both heartily disapproved of it. Under 
some circumstances Mrs. Haynes would have been de- 
lighted to have for a son-in-law Lady Gresham’s grand- 
son. But she prized money more than a title, and one 
hundred pounds a year with a doubtful orange grove in 
Florida did not commend themselves to her, while Lady 


GRACE HAYNES. 


113 


Gresham, although very gracious to Mrs. Haynes, 
because it was not in her nature to be otherwise to any 
one, did not like the fast American girl, who wore her 
hair short, carried her hands in her pockets like a man, 
and believed in women’s rights. If Jack were insane 
enough to marry her she would wash her hands of him 
and send him off to that orange grove, where she had 
heard there was a little dilapidated house in which he 
could try to live on the climate and one hundred a year. 
Some such thoughts as these were passing through 
Lady Gresham’s mind, while Mrs. Haynes was thinking 
of Grace’s perversity in encouraging young Travis, and 
of Reginald Hallam, from whom Mrs. Hallam had that 
morning had a letter and who was coming to Aix earlier 
than he had intended doing. Nearly all his friends 
were out of town, he wrote, and the house was so lonely 
without his aunt that she might expeet him within two 
or three weeks at the farthest. He did not say what 
steamer he should take, but, as ten days had elapsed 
since his letter was written, Mrs. Hallam said she should 
not be surprised to see him at any time, and her face 
wore an air of pleased expectancy at the prospect of 
having Rex with her once more. But a thought of Ber- 
tha brought a cloud upon it at once. She had intended 
removing her from the second-class salle-a-mangcr be- 
fore Rex came, but did not know how to manage it. 

“The girl seems contented enough,” she thought, 
'* and I hear has a great deal of attention there, — in 
fact, is quite like a queen among her subjects ; so I 
guess I’ll let it run, and if Rex flares up I’ll trust Mrs. 
Haynes to help me out of it, as she got me into it.” 


1H 


MRS, HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. 

It was getting rather dull at the Hotel Splendide. 
The novelty of having a king in their midst, who went 
about unattended in citizen’s dress, and bowed to all 
who looked as if they wished him to bow to them, was 
wearing off, and he could go in and out as often as he 
liked without being followed or stared at. The grand 
duchess, too, whose apartments were screened from 
the great unwashed, had had her Sunday dinner-party, 
with scions of French royalty in the Bourbon line for 
her guests, and a band of music outside. The woman 
from Chicago, who had flirted so outrageously with her 
eyes with the Russian, while his little wife sat by smil- 
ing placidly and suspecting no evil because the 
Chicagoan professed to speak no language but English, 
of which her husband did not understand a word, had 
departed for other fields. The French count, who had 
beaten his American bride of three weeks’ standing, 
had also gone, and the hotel had subsided into a state 
of great respectability and circumspection. 

“ Positively we are stagnating, with nothing to gossip 
about except Jack and myself, and nothing going on in 
town,” Grace Haynes said to Bertha, with whom she 
continued on the most friendly terms. 

But the stagnation came to an end and the town 
woke up when it was known that Miss Sanderson from 
San Francisco was to appear in opera at the Casino. 
Everybody had heard of the young prima donna, and 


THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. 


115 


all were anxious to see her. Mrs. Hallam took a box 
for Mrs. Haynes, Grace, and herself, but, although 
there was plenty of room, Bertha was not included in 
the party. Nearly all the guests were going from the 
third floor, which would thus be left entirely to the 
servants, and Mrs. Hallam, who was always suspecting 
foreigners of pilfering from her, did not dare leave 
her rooms alone, so Bertha must stay and watch them. 
She had done this before when Mrs. Hallam was at the 
Casino, but to-night it seemed particularly hard, as she 
wished to see Miss Sanderson so much that she would 
willingly have stood in the rear seats near the door, 
where a crowd always congregated. But there was no 
help for it, and after seeing Mrs. Hallam and her party 
off she went into the salon, and, taking an easy-chair 
and a book, sat down to enjoy the quiet and the rest. 
She was very tired, for Mrs. Hallam had kept her un- 
usually busy that day, arranging the dress she was going 
to wear, and sending her twice down the long, steep 
hill into the town in quest of something needed for her 
toilet. It was very still in and around the hotel, and at 
last, overcome by fatigue and drowsiness, Bertha's book 
dropped into her lap and she fell asleep with her head 
thrown back against the cushioned chair and one hand 
resting on its arm. Had she tried she could not have 
chosen a more graceful position, or one which showed 
her face and figure to better advantage, and so thought 
Rex Hallam, when, fifteen or twenty minutes later, he 
stepped into the room and stood looking at her. 

Ever since his visit to the Homestead he had found 
his thoughts constantly turning to Aix-les-Bains, and had 
made up his mind to go on a certain ship, when he acci- 
dentally met Fred Thurston, who was stopping in New 


116 


MRS. II ALL AM S COMPANION. 


York for two or three days before sailing. There was 
an invitation to dinner at the Windsor, and as a result 
Rex packed his trunk, and, securing a vacant berth, 
sailed for Havre with the Thurstons a week earlier than 
he had. expected to sail. Fred was sick all the voyage 
and kept his berth, but Louie seemed perfectly well, and 
had never been so happy since she was a child play- 
ing with Rex under the magnolias in Florida as she 
was now, walking and talking with him upon the deck, 
where, with her piquant, childish beauty, she attracted 
a great deal of attention and provoked some comment 
from the censorious when it was 'known that she had a 
husband sick in his berth. But Louie was guiltless of 
any intentional wrong-doing; She had said to Bertha 
in Boston, that she believed Fred was going to die, he 
was so good ; and, with a few exceptions, when the 
Hyde nature was in the ascendant, he had kept good 
ever since. He had urged Rex’s going with them quite 
as strongly as Louie, and when he found himself 
unable to stay on deck, he had bidden Louie go and en- 
joy herself, saying, however : 

“ I know what a flirt you are, but I can trust Rex 
Hallam, on whom your doll beauty has never made an 
impression and never will ; so go and be happy with 
him.” 

This was not a pleasant thing to say, but it was like 
Fred Thurston to say it, and he looked curiously at 
Louie to see how it would affect her. There was a flush 
on her face for a moment, while the tears .sprang toiler 
eyes. But she was of too sunny a disposition to be mis- 
erable long, and, thinking to herself, “Just for this 
one week I will be happy,” she tied on her pretty sea- 
cloak and hood, and went on deck, and was happy as a 


THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. 


117 


child when something it has lost and mourned is found 
again. At Paris they separated, the Thurstons going on 
to Switzerland, and Rex to Aix-les-Bains, laden with 
messages of love to Bertha, who had been the principal 
subject of Louie’s talk during the voyage. In a burst 
of confidence Rex had told her of Rose Arabella Jef- 
ferson’s photograph, and Louie had laughed merrily 
over the mistake, saying : 

“ You will find Bertha handsomer than her picture. 
I think you will fall in love with her ; and — if — you — 

do ” she spoke the last words very slowly, while 

shadow after shadow flitted over her face as if she were 
fighting some battle with herself ; then, with a bright 
smile, she added, “ I shall be glad.” 

Rex’s journey from Paris to Aix was accomplished 
without any worse mishap than a detention of the train 
for three hours or more, so that it was not until his aunt 
had been gone some time that he reached the hotel, 
where he was told that Mrs. Hallam and party were at 
the Casino. 

“ I suppose she has a salon. I will go there and wait 
till she returns,” Rex said, and then followed a servant 
up-stairs and along the hall in the direction of the 
salon. 

He had expected to find it locked, and was rather sur- 
prised when he saw the open door and the light inside, 
and still more surprised as he entered the room to find 
a young lady so fast asleep that his coming did not dis- 
turb her. He readily guessed who she was, and for a 
moment stood looking at her admiringly, noting every 
point of beauty from the long lashes shading her cheeks 
to the white hand resting upon the arm of the chair. 

“ Phineas was right. She is handsome as blazes, but 


118 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


I don’t think it is quite the thing for me to stand star- 
ing at her this way. It is taking an unfair advantage of 
her. I must present myself properly,” he thought, and, 
stepping into the hall, he knocked rather loudly upon 
the door. 

Bertha awoke with a start and sprang to her feet in 
some alarm as, in response to her “ Entrez,” a tall young 
man stepped into the room and stood confronting her 
with a good deal of assurance. 

“ You must have made a mistake, sir. This is Mrs. 
Hallam’s salon,” she said, rather haughtily, while Rex 
replied-: 

“ Yes, I know it. Mrs. Hallam is my aunt, and you 
must be Miss Leighton.” 

“Oh !” Bertha exclaimed, her attitude changing at 
once, as she recognized the stranger. “Your aunt is 
expecting you, but not quite so soon. She will be very 
sorry not to have been here to meet you. She has gone 
to the opera. Miss Sanderson is in town.” 

“ So they told me at the office,” Rex said, explaining 
that he had crossed a little sooner than he had intended, 
but did not telegraph his aunt, as he wished to surprise 
her. He then added, “I am too late for dinner, but I 
suppose I can have my supper up here, which will' be 
better than climbing the three flights of stairs again. 
That scoop of an elevator has gone ashore for repairs, 
and I had to walk up.” 

Ringing the bell, he ordered his supper, while Bertha 
started to leave the salon, saying she hoped he would 
make himself comfortable until his aunt returned. 

“ Don’t go,” he said, stepping between her and the 
door to detain her. “ Stay and keep me company. I 
have been shut up in a c.ose railway carriage all day 


the night oe the oeera. 


110 


with French and Germans* and am dying to talk to 
some one who speaks English, ” 

He made her sit down in the chaif from which she 1 
had risen when he came in, and, drawing another near 
to her, said, “ You do not seem like a stranger, but 
rather like an old acquaintance. Why* for a whole 
week I have heard of little else but you.” 

“ Of me !” Bertha said, in surprise. 

He replied, “ I crossed with Mr. and Mrs. Fred 
Thurston. She, I believe, is your cousin, and was never 
tired of talking of you, and has sent more love to you 
than one man ought to carry for some one else.” 

“ Cousin Louie ! Yes, I knew she was coming about 
this time. And 3 7 ou crossed with her ?” Bertha said, 
thinking what a fine-looking man he was, while there 
came to her mind what Louie had said of his gracious- 
ness of manner, which made every woman think she 
was especially pleasing to him, whether she were old or 
young, pretty or plain, rich or poor. He talked so 
easily and pleasantly and familiarly that it was difficult 
to think of him as a stranger, and she was not sorry 
that he had bidden her stay. 

When supper was on the table he looked it over a 
moment, and then said to the waiter, “ Bring dishes 
and napkins enough for two then to Bertha, “ If I re- 
member the table d'hotes abroad, they are not of a 
nature to make one refuse supper at ten o’clock ; so I 
hope you are ready to join me.” 

Bertha had been treated as second-class so long that 
she had almost come to believe she was second-class, and 
the idea of sitting down to supper with Rex Hallam in 
his aunt’s salon took her breath away. 

“ Don’t refuse,” he continued. “ It will be so much 


120 


Mrs. hallam’s companion 


jollier than eating alone, and I want you to pour in/- 
coffee.” 

He brought her a chair, and before she realized what 
she was doing she found herself sitting opposite him 
quite en famille , and chatting as familiarly as if she had 
known him all her life. He told her of his visit to the 
Homestead, his drive with Dorcas, and his meeting with 
Phineas Jones, over which she laughed merrily, feeling 
that America was not nearly so far away as it had 
seemed before he came. When supper was over and 
the table cleared, he began to talk of books and pic- 
tures, finding that as a rule they liked the same authors 
and admired the same artists. 

“By the way,” he said, suddenly, “ why are you not 
at the opera with my aunt ? Are you not fond of 
music ?” 

“ Yes, very,” Bertha replied, “ but some one must stay 
with the rooms. Mrs. Hallam is afraid to leave them 
alone.” 

“Ah, yes. Afraid somebody will steal her diamonds, 
which she keeps doubly and trebly locked, first in a 
padded box, then in her trunk, and last in her room. 
Well, I am glad for my sake that you didn’t go. But 
isn’t it rather close up here ? Suppose we go down. 
It’s a glorious moonlight night, and there must be a 
piazza somewhere.” 

Bertha thought of the broad, vine-wreathed piazza, 
with its easy-chairs, where it would be delightful to sit 
with Reginald Hallam, but she must not leave her post, 
and she said so. 

“ Oh, I see ; another case of the boy on the burning 
deck,” Rex said, laughing. “I suppose you are right ; 
but I never had much patience with that boy. I 


TttE NtGtTT OF* THE OPERA. 


m 


shouldn’t have stayed till I was blown higher than a 
kite, but should have run with the first sniff of fire. 
You think I’d better go down ? Not a bit of it ; if you 
stay here, I shall. It can’t be long now before they 
come. Zounds ! I beg your pardon. Until I said they , I 
had forgotten to inquire for Mrs. Haynes and Grace. 
They are well, I suppose, and with my aunt ?” 

Bertha said they were, and Rex continued : 

“ Grace and I are great friends. She’s a little pecu- 
liar, — wants to vote, and all that sort of thing, — but I 
like her immensely/’ 

Then he talked on indifferent subjects until Mrs. Hal- 
lam was heard coming along the hall, panting and talk- 
ing loudly, and evidently out of humor. The elevator, 
which Rex said had been drawn off for repairs, was 
still off, and she had been obliged to walk up the stairs, 
and didn’t like it. Bertha had risen to her feet as soon 
as she heard her voice, while Rex, too, rose and stood 
behind her in the shadow, so his aunt did not see him as 
she entered the room, and, sinking into the nearest 
chair, said, irritably : 

“Hurry and help me off with my things. I’m half 
dead. Whew ! Isn’t that lamp smoking ? How it 
smells here ! Open another window. The lift is not 
running, and I had to walk up the stairs.” 

“ I knew it stopped earlier in the evening, but sup- 
posed it was running now. I am very sorry,” Bertha 
said, and Mrs. Hal lam continued : 

“ You ought to have found out and been down there 
to help me up.” 

“ I didn’t come any too soon,” Rex thought, stepping 
out from the shadow, and saying, in his cheery voice, 
« Halloo, auntie ! All tuckered out, aren’t you, with 


MRS. HALLAM's COMPANION. 


122 


those horrible stairs ! I tried them, and they took the 
wind out of me.” 

“ Oh, Rex, Rex !” Mrs. Hallam cried, throwing her 
arms around the tall young man, who bent over her and 
returned her caresses, while he explained that he did 
not telegraph, as he wished to surprise her, and that he 
had reached the hotel half an hour or so after she 
left it. 

“ Why didn’t you come at once to the Casino ? There 
was plenty of room in our box, and you must have been 
so dull here.” 

Rex replied : “ Not at all dull, with Miss Leighton 
for company. I ordered my supper up here and had 
her join me. So you see I have made myself quite at 
home.” 

“ I see,” Mrs. Hallam said, with a tone in her voice 
and a shutting together of her lips which Bertha under- 
stood perfectly. 

She had gathered up Mrs. Hallam’s mantle and bon- 
net and opera-glass and fan and gloves by this time ; 
and, knowing she was no longer needed, she left the 
room just as Mrs. Haynes and Grace, who had heard 
Rex’s voice, entered it. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AFTER THE OPERA. 

The ladies slept late the next morning, and Rex 
breakfasted alone and then went to the salon to meet 
his aunt, as he had promised to do the night before. It 


AFTER THE OPERA. 


123 


was rather tiresome waiting, and he found himself 
wishing Bertha would come in, and wondering where 
she was. As a young man of position and wealth and 
unexceptionable habits, he was a general favorite with 
the ladies, and many a mother would gladly have 
captured him for her daughter, while the daughter 
would not have said no if asked to be his wife. This 
he knew perfectly well, but, he said, the daughters didn’t 
fill the bill. He wanted a real girl, not a made-up one, 
with powdered face, bleached hair, belladonna eyes, 
and all the obnoxious habits so fast stealing into the 
best society. Little Louie Thurston had touched his 
boyish fancy, and he admired her more than any other 
woman he had ever met ; Grace Haynes amused and 
interested him ; but neither she nor Louie possessed 
the qualities with which he had endowed his ideal wife, 
who, he had come to believe, did not exist. Thus far 
everything connected with Bertha Leighton had inter- 
ested him greatly, and the two hours he had spent 
alone with her had deepened that interest. She was 
beautiful, agreeable, and real, he believed, with some- 
thing fresh and bright and original about her. He was 
anxious to see her again, and was thinking of going 
down to the piazza, hoping to find her there, when his 
aunt appeared, and for the next hour he sat with her, 
telling her of their friends in New York and of his visit 
to the Homestead, where he had been so hospitably 
entertained and made so many discoveries with regard 
to Bertha. 

“ She is a great favorite in Leicester,” he said, “ and 
I think you have' a treasure.” 

“ Yes, she serves me very well,” Mrs. Hallam replied, 
and then changed the conversation, just as Grace 


124 


MUS. &ALLAM 7 S COMfANtOtf. 


knocked at the door, saying she was going for a walk 
into town, and asking if Rex would like to go with 
her. 

It was a long ramble they had together, while Grace 
told him of her acquaintances in Aix, and especially of 
the young Englishman, Jack Travis, and the Florida 
orange grove on which he had sunk a thousand dollars 
with no return. 

“ Tell him to quit sinking, and go and see to it him- 
self,” Rex said. “ Living in England or at the North 
and sending money South to be used on a grove, is 
much like a woman trying to keep house successfully 
by sitting in her chamber and issuing her orders through 
a speaking tube, instead of going to the kitchen herself 
to see what is being done there.” 

Rex’s illustrations were rather peculiar, but they 
were sensible. Grace understood this one perfectly, 
and began to revolve in her mind the feasibility of ad- 
vising Jack to go to Florida and attend to his business 
himself, instead of talking through a tube. Then she 
spoke of Bertha, and was at once conscious of an air of 
increased interest in Reginald, as she told him how 
much she liked the girl and how strangely he seemed to 
be mixed up with her. 

“ You see, Mrs. Hallam tells mamma everything, 
and so I know all about Rose Arabella Jefferson’s pic- 
ture. I nearly fell out of my chair when I heard about 
it ; and I know, too, about your knocking Miss Leigh- 
ton down on the Teutonic ” 

“ Wha-at !” Rex exclaimed ; “ was that Ber — Miss 
Leighton, I mean ?” 

“ Certainly that was Bertha. Yon may as well call 
her that when with me,” Grace replied. “ I knew you 


AFTER THE OPERA. 


125 


would admire her. You can’t help it. I am glad you 
have come, and I hope you will rectify a lot of things.” 

Rex looked at her inquiringly, but before he could 
ask what she meant, they turned a corner and came 
upon Jack Travis, who joined them, and on hearing 
that Rex was from New York began to ask after his 
orange grove, as if he thought Reginald passed it 
daily on his way to his business. 

“ What a stupid you are !” Grace said. “ Mr. Hallam 
never saw an orange grove in his life. Why, you could 
put three or four United Kingdoms into the space 
between New York and Florida.” 

“ Reely ! How very extraordinary !” the young 
Englishman said, utterly unable to comprehend the 
vastness of America, towards which he was beginning 
to turn his thoughts as a place where he might possibly 
live on seven hundred dollars a year with Grace to 
manage it and him. 

When they reached the hotel it was lunch-time, and 
after a few touches to his toilet Rex started for the 
salle-a-manger , thinking that now he should see 
Bertha, in whom he felt a still greater interest since 
learning that it was she to whom he had given the 
black eye on the Teutonic. “ The hand of fate is cer- 
tainly in it,” he thought, without exactly knowing what 
the it referred to. Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. Haynes and 
Grace were already at the table when he entered the 
room and was shown to the only vacant seat, between 
his aunt and Grace. 

“ This must be Miss Leighton’s place,” he said, stand- 
ing by the chair. “ I do not wish to keep her from her 
accustomed seat. Where is she ?” and he looked up and 
down both sides of the long table, but dicj not see her, 


126 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


“ Where is she ?” he asked again, and his aunt replied 
“ She is not coming to-day. Sit down, and I will 
explain after lunch.” 

“What is there to explain?” he thought, as he -sat 
down and glanced first at his aunt’s worried face, then 
\ at Grace, and then at Mrs. Haynes. 

Then an idea occurred to him which almost made him 
jump from his chair. He said to Grace : 

“ Does Miss Leighton lunch in her room ?” 

“ Oh, no,” Grace replied. 

“ Doesn’t she come here ?” he persisted. 

“ Your aunt will explain. I would rather not,” Grace 
said. 

There was something wrong, Rex was sure, and he 
finished lunch before the others and left the salon just 
in time to see Bertha half-way up the second flight of 
stairs. Bounding up two steps at a time, he soon stood 
beside her, with his hand on her arm to help her up the 
next flight. 

“ I have not seen you this morning. Where have 
you kept yourself?” he asked, and she replied : 

“ I have been busy in your aunt’s room.” 

“ Where is her maid ?” was his next question, and 
Bertha answered : 

“ She has been gone some time.” 

“ And you fill her place ?” 

“ I do what Mrs. Hallam wishes me to.” 

“ Why were you not at lunch ?” 

“ I have been to lunch.” 

“ You have ! Where ?” 

“ Where I always take it.” 

“And where is that ?” 

There was something in Rex’s voice an4 manner 


AFTER THE OPERA. 


127 


which told Bertha that he was not to be trifled with, 
and she replied, “ I take my meals in the servants’ hall, 
or rather with the maids and nurses and couriers. It is 
not bad when you are accustomed to it,” she added, as 
she saw the blackness on Reginald’s face and the wrath 
in his eyes. They had now reached the door of Mrs. 
Hallam’s room, and Mrs. Hallam was just leaving the 
elevator in company with Mrs. Haynes, who very wisely 
went into her own apartment and left her friend to 
meet the storm alone. 

And a fierce storm it was. At its close Mrs. Hallam 
was in tears, and Rex was striding up and down the 
salon like an enraged lion. Mrs. Hallam had tried to 
apologize and explain, telling how respectful all the 
couriers and valets were, how much less it cost, and that 
Mrs. Haynes said the English sent their companions 
there, and governesses too, sometimes. Rex did not 
care a picayune for what the English did ; he almost 
swore about Mrs. Haynes, whose handiwork he recog- 
nized ; he scorned the idea of its costing less, and said* 
that unless Bertha were at once treated as an equal in 
every respect he would either leave the hotel or join 
her in the second-class salon and see for himself whether 
those rascally Russians and Turks and Frenchmen 
looked at her as they had no business to look. 

At this point Bertha, who had no suspicion of what was 
taking place in the salon, and who wished to speak to 
Mrs. Hallam, knocked at the door. Rex opened it with 
the intention of sending the intruder away, but when he 
saw Bertha he bade her come in, and, standing with his 
back against the door, went over the whole matter 
again and told her she was to join them at dinner. 

“ And if there is no place for you at my aunt’s end of 


128 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


the table there is at the other, and I shall sit there with 
you,” he said. 

He had settled everything satisfactorily, he thought, 
when a fresh difficulty arose with Bertha herself. She 
had listened in surprise to Rex, and smiled gratefully 
upon him through the tears she could not repress, but 
she said, “ I cannot tell you how much I thank you for 
your sympathy and kind intentions. But really I am 
not unhappy in the servants’ hall, nor have I received 
the slightest discourtesy. Browne, our courier, has 
stood between me and everything which might have 
been unpleasant, and I have quite a liking for my com- 
panions. And,” — here her face hardened and her eyes 
grew very dark, — “ nothing can induce me to join your 
party as you propose while Mrs. Haynes is in it. She 
has worried and insulted me from the moment she saw 
me. She suggested and urged my going to the ser- 
vants’ hall against your aunt’s wishes, and has never let 
an opportunity pass to make me feel my subordinate 
position. I like Miss Haynes very much, but her mother 

” there was a toss of Bertha’s head indicative of 

her opinion of the mother, an opinion which Rex fully 
shared, and if he could he would have turned Mrs. 
Haynes from the hotel bag and baggage. 

But this was impossible. He could neither dislodge 
her nor move Bertha from her decision, which he under- 
stood and respected. But he could take her and his 
aunt away from Aix and commence life under different 
auspices in some other place. He had promised to join 
a party of friends at Chamonix, and he would go there 
at once, and then find some quiet, restful place in Switz- 
erland, from which excursions could be made and where 
bis aunt could join him with Bertha. This was his plan, 


AFTER THE OPERA. 


129 


which met with Mrs. Hallam’s approval. She was get- 
ting tired of Aix, and a little tired, too, of Mrs. Haynes, 
who had not helped her into society as much as she 
had expected. Lady Gresham, though civil, evidently 
shunned the party, presumably because of Grace’s flirta- 
tion with Jack, while very few desirable people were on 
terms of intimacy with her, and the undesirable she 
would not notice. In fresh fields, however, with Rex, 
who took precedence everywhere, she should do better, 
and she was quite willing to go wherever and whenever 
he chose. That night at dinner she told Mrs. Haynes 
her plans, and that Rex was to leave the next day for 
Chamonix. 

“ So soon ? I am surprised, and sorry, too ; Grace 
has anticipated your coming so much and planned so 
many things to do when you came. She will be so dis- 
appointed. Can’t we persuade you to stop a few days 
at least ?” Mrs. Haynes said, leaning forward and look- 
ing at Rex with a very appealing face, while Grace 
stepped on her foot and whispered to her : 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t throw me at Rex Hallam’s 
head, and make him more disgusted with us than he is 
already.” 

The next morning Rex brought his aunt a little, 
black-eyed French girl, Eloise, whom he had found in 
town, and who had once or twice served in the capacity 
of maid. He had made the bargain with her himself, 
and such a bargain as he felt sure would ensure her stay 
in his aunt’s service, no matter what was put upon her. 
He had also enumerated many of the duties the girl 
was expected to perform, and among them was waiting 
upon Miss Leighton equally with his aunt. He laid 
great stress upon this, and, in order to secure Eloise’s 


130 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


respect for Bertha, he insisted if the latter would not go 
to the same table with Mrs. Haynes she should take her 
meals in the salon. To this Bertha reluctantly con- 
sented, and at dinner she found herself installed in soli- 
tary state in the handsome salon and served like a 
young empress by the obsequious waiter, who, having 
seen the color of Reginald’s gold, was all attention to 
Mademoiselle. It was a great change, and in her loneli- 
ness she half wished herself back with her heterogeneous 
companions, who had amused and interested her, and 
to some of whom she was really attached. But just as 
dessert was served Rex came in and joined her, and 
everything was changed, for there was no mistaking the 
interest he was beginning to feel in her ; it showed it- 
self in ways which never fail to reach a woman’s heart. 
At his aunt’s earnest entreaty he had decided to spend 
another night at Aix, but he left the next morning with 
instructions that Mrs. Hallam should be ready to join 
him whenever he wrote her to do so. 

“And mind,” he said, laying a hand on each of her 
shoulders, “ don’t you bring Mrs. Haynes witlryou, for 
I will not have her. Pension her off, if you want to, 
and I will pay the bill ; but leave her here.” 


AT THE BEAU-RIVAGE, 


131 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AT THE BEAU-RIVAGE. 

“ Beau-Rivage, Ouchy, Switzerland, August 4, 18 — . 

“ To Miss Bertha Leighton, Hotel Splendide, 

Aix-les-Bains, Savoie. 

“ Fred is dying, and I am ill in bed. Come at once. 

“ Louie Thurston.” 

This was the telegram which Bertha received about 
a week after Rex’s departure for Chamonix, and within 
an hour of its receipt her trunk was packed and she 
was ready for the first train which would take her to 
Ouchy. Mrs. Hallam had made no objection to her go- 
ing, but, on the contrary, seemed rather relieved than 
otherwise, for since the revolution which Rex had 
brought about she hardly knew what to do with Bertha. 
The maid Eloise had proved a treasure, and under the 
combined effects of Rex’s pourboire and Rex’s instruc- 
tions, had devoted herself so assiduously to both Mrs. 
Hallam and Bertha that it was difficult to tell which 
she was serving most. But she ignored Mrs. Haynes 
entirely, saying that Monsieur’s orders were for his 
Madame and his Mademoiselle, and she should recog- 
nize the rights of no third party until he told her to do 
so. In compliance with Rex’s wishes, very decidedly 
expressed, Mrs. Hallam now took all her meals in the 
salon with Bertha, but they were rather dreary affairs, 
and, although sorry for the cause, both were glad when 
an opportunity came for a change. 


132 


MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION. 


“Certainly it is your duty to go,” Mrs. Hallam said, 
when Bertha handed her the telegram, while Mrs. 
Haynes also warmly approved of the plan, and both 
expressed surprise that Bertha had never told them of 
her relationship to Mrs. Fred Thurston. 

They knew Mrs. Fred was a power in society, and 
Mrs. Haynes had met her once or twice and through a 
friend had managed to attend a reception at her house, 
which she described as magnificent. To be Mrs. Fred 
Thurston’s cousin was to be somebody, and both Mrs. 
Hallam and Mrs. Haynes became suddenly interested 
in Bertha, the latter offering her advice with regard to 
the journey, while the former suggested the propriety 
of sending Browne as an escort. But Bertha declined 
the offer. She could speak the language fluently and 
would have no difficulty whatever in finding her way to 
Ouchy, she said, but she thanked the ladies for their 
solicitude and parted with them, apparently, on the 
most amicable terms. Grace accompanied her to the 
station, and while waiting for the train said to her con- 
fidentially, “ I expect there will be a bigger earthquake 
bye-and-bye than Rex got up on your account. Jack and 
I are engaged. I made up my mind last night to take 
the great, good-natured, awkward fellow and run my 
chance on seven hundred dollars a year. It will come 
off early in the autumn, and we shall go to Florida and 
see what we can do with that orange-grove. Jack will 
have to work, and so shall I, and I shall like it and he 
won’t, but I shall keep him at it, trust me. Can you 
imagine mother’s disgust when I tell her ? She really 
thinks that I have a chance with Rex. But that is 
folly. Play your cards well. I think you hold a lore 


AT THE BEAtT-RIVAGE. 133 

hand. There’s your train. Write when you get there, 
Good-bye.” 

There was a friendly parting, a rush through the 
gate for the carriages, a slamming of doors, and then 
the train sped on its way, bearing Bertha to a new 
phase of life in Ouchy. 

Thurston had been sick all the voyage, and instead of 
resting in Paris, as Rex had advised him and Louie had 
entreated him to do, he had started at once for Geneva 
And taken a severe cold on the night train. Arrived at 
the Beau-Rivage in Ouchy, he refused to see a physician 
until his wife came down with nervous prostration and 
one was called for her. Louie had had rather a hard 
time after Rex left her in Paris, for, as if to make amends 
for his Jekyll mood on the ship, her husband was un- 
usually unreasonable, and worried her so with sarcasm 
and taunts and ridicule that her heart was very sore 
when she reached Ouchy. The excitement of the voy- 
age, with Reginald as her constant companion, was 
over, and she must again take up the old life, which 
seemed drearier than ever because everything and 
everybody were so strange, and she found herself con- 
stantly longing for somebody to speak a kind and sym- 
pathetic word to her. In this condition of things it was 
not strange that she succumbed at last to the extreme 
nervous depression which had affected her in Boston, 
and which was now so intensified that she could scarcely 
lift her head from the pillow. 

“ I am only tired,” she said to the physician, a kind, 
fatherly old man, who asked her what was the matter. 
“ Only tired of life, which is not worth the living.” 
And her sad blue eyes looked up so pathetically into his 
face that the doctor felt moved with a great pity for this 


134 


MRS. hallam’s companion. 


young, beautiful woman, surrounded with every luxury 
money could buy, but whose face and words told a 
Jtory he could not understand until called to prescribe 
for her husband ; and then he knew. 

Thurston had made a fight against the illness which 
was stealing over him and which he swore he would 
defy. Drugs and doctors were for silly women like 
Louie, who must be amused, he said, but he would have 
none of them. “ Only exert your will and you can 
cheat Death himself,” was his favorite saying, and he 
exerted his will, and went to Chillon, rowed on the lake 
in the moonlight, took a Turkish bath, and next day 
had a chill, which lasted so long and left him so weak 
that he consented to see the doctor, but raved like a 
madman when told that he must go to bed and stay 
there if he wished to save his life. 

“ I don’t know that I care particularly about it. I 
haven’t found it so very jolly,” he said ; then, after a 
moment, he added, with a bitter laugh, “ Tell my wife 
I am likely to shuffle off this mortal coil, and see how it 
affects her.” 

He was either crazy, or a brute, or both, the doctor 
thought, but he made him go to bed, secured the best 
nurse he could find, and was there early the next morn- 
ing to see how his patient fared. He found him so 
much worse that when he went to Louie he asked if she 
had any friends near who could come to her, saying, 
“If you have, send for them at once.” 

Louie was in a state where nothing startled her, and 
without opening her eyes she said, “Am I going to 
die ?” 

“ No,” was the doctor’s reply, and she continued, “ Is 
my husband ?”* 


AT THE BEAtT-RlVAOE. 


135 


“ I hope not, but he is very ill and growing steadily 
worse. Have you any friend who will come to you ?" 

“ Yes, — my cousin, Miss Leighton, at Aix," Louie 
answered ; and she dictated the telegram, which the 
doctor wrote after asking if she had no male friend. 

For a moment she hesitated, thinking of Reginald, 
who would surely come if bidden, and be so strong and 
helpful. But that would not do ; and she answered, 
“ There is no one. Bertha can do everything." 

So Bertha was summoned, and the day after the 
receipt of the telegram she was at the Beau-Rivage, 
feeling that she had not come too soon when she saw 
how utterly prostrated Louie was, and how excited and 
unmanageable Thurston was becoming under the com- 
bined effects of fever and his dislike of his nurse, who 
could not speak a word of English, while he could un- 
derstand very little French. Frequent altercations 
were the result, and when Bertha entered the sick-room 
there was a fierce battle of words going on between the 
two, Victoire trying to make the patient take his medi- 
cine, while Fred sat bolt upright in bed, the perspira- 
tion rolling down his face as he fought against the glass 
and hurled at the half-crazed Frenchman every oppro- 
brious epithet in the English language. As Bertha 
appeared the battle ceased, but not until the glass with 
its contents was on the floor, where Thurston had 
struck it from Victoire’s hand. 

“ Ah, Bertha," he gasped, as he sank exhausted upon 
his pillow, “ did you drop from heaven, or where ? and 
won’t you tell this idiot that it is not time to take my 
medicine ? I know, for I have it written down in good 
English. Blast that French language, which nobody 


13G MRS. rallam’s companion. 

can understand ! I doubt if they do themselves, the 
gabbling fools, with their parleys and we*we's” 

It did not take Bertha long to bring order out of con- 
fusion. She was a natural nurse, and when the doctor 
came and she proposed to take Victoire’s place until a 
more suitable man was found, her offer was accepted. 
But it was no easy task she had assumed, and after two 
days and nights, during which she was only relieved for 
a few hours by John, Thurston’s valet, when sleep was 
absolutely necessary, she was thoroughly worn out. 
Leaving the sick man in charge of John, she started for 
a ramble through the grounds, hoping that the air and 
exercise would rest and strengthen her. The Thurston 
rooms were at the rear of a long hall on the second 
floor, and, as the other end was somewhat in shadow, 
she only knew that some one was advancing towards 
her as she went rapidly down the corridor. Nor did 
she look up until a voice which sent a thrill through 
every nerve said to her, “ Good-afternoon, Miss Leigh- 
ton. Don’t you know me ?” Then she stopped sud- 
denly, while a cry of delight escaped her, as she gave 
both her hands into the warm, strong ones of Rex 
Hallam, who held them fast while he questioned her 
rapidly and told her how he chanced to be there. He 
had joined his party at Chamonix, where they had 
stayed for several days, crossing the Mer-de-Glace and 
making other excursions among the mountains and 
glaciers. He had then made a flying trip to Interlaken, 
Lucerne, and Geneva, in quest of the place to which he 
meant to remove his aunt, and had finally thought of 
Ouchy, where he knew the Thurstons were, and to 
which he had come in a boat from Geneva. Learning 
at the office of his friend’s illness, he had started at once 


AT THE BEAtT-KIVAGE. 


13 ? 


for his room, meeting on the way with Bertha, whose 
presence there he did not suspect. While he talked he 
led her near to a window, where the light fell full upon 
her face, showing him how pale and tired it was. 

“ This will not do,” he said, when he had heard her 
story. “ I am glad I have come to relieve you. I shall 
write to Aix to-day that I am going to stay here, where 
I can be of service to Fred and Louie, and to you too. 
You will not go back, of course, while your cousin needs 
you. And now go out into the sunshine, and bye-and- 
bye I’ll find you somewhere in the grounds.” 

He had taken matters into his own hands in his mas- 
terful way, and Bertha felt how delightful it was to have 
some one to lean upon, and that one Rex Hallam, whose 
voice was so full of sympathy, whose eyes looked at her 
so kindly, and whose hands held hers so long and 
seemed so unwilling to release them. With a blush she 
withdrew them from his clasp. Leaving her at last, he 
walked down the hall, entering Louie’s room first and 
finding her asleep, with her maid in charge. For a 
moment he stood looking at her white, wan face, which 
touched him more than her fair beauty had ever done, 
for on it he could read the story of her life, and a great 
pity welled up in his heart for the girl who seemed so 
like a lovely flower broken on its stem. 

“ Poor little Louie !” he said, involuntarily, and at 
the sound of his voice Louie awoke, recognizing him at 
once, and exclaiming : 

“ Oh, Rex ! I was dreaming of you and the magnolias. 
I am so glad you are here ! You will stay, won’t you l 
I am afraid Fred is going to die, he is so bad, and then 
what shall I do ?” 

She gave him her hand, which he did not hold as long 


138 


Mrs. hallams companion 1 . 


he had held Bertha’s, nor did the holding it affect 
him the same. Bertha’s had been warm and full of life, 
with something electrical in their touch, which sent the 
blood bounding through his veins and made him long 
to kiss them, as well as the bright face raised so eagerly 
to his. Louie’s hand was thin and clammy, and so 
small that he could have crushed it easily, as he raised 
it to his lips with the freedom of an old-time friend, 
and just as he would have done had Fred himself been 
present. He told her he should stay as long as he was 
needed, and after a few moments went to see her hus- 
band, who was beginning to grow restless and to fret 
at Bertha’s absence. But at sight of Reginald his mood 
changed, and he exclaimed joyfully : 

“ Rex, old boy, I wonder if you know how glad I am 
to see you. I do believe I shall get well now you are 
here, though I am having a big tussle with some con- 
founded thing, — typhoid, the doctor calls it ; but doc- 
tors are fools. How did you happen to drop down 
here ?” 

Rex told him how he chanced to be there, and that 
he was going to stay, and then, excusing himself, went 
in quest of Bertha, whom he found sitting upon a rus- 
tic seat which was partially concealed by a clump of 
shrubbery. It was a glorious afternoon, and Rex, who 
was very fond of boating, proposed a row upon the lake, 
to which Bertha consented. 

“ I have had too many races with Harvard not to 
know how to manage the oars myself,” he said, as he 
handed Bertha into the boat, and dismissing the boy, 
pushed off from the shore. 

It was a delightful hour they spent together gliding 
over the smooth waters of the lake, and in that time they 


The unwelcome guest. 


13d 


became better acquainted than many people do in years. 
There was no coquetry nor sham in Bertha’s nature, 
while Rex was so open and frank, and they had so much 
in common to talk about, that restraint was impossible 
between them. Poor Rose Arabella Jefferson was dis- 
cussed and laughed over, Rex declaring his intention to 
find her some time, if he made a pilgrimage to Scots- 
burg on purpose. Then he spoke of the encounter on 
the ship, and said : 

“ I can’t tell you how many times I have thought of 
that girl before I knew it was you, or how I have 
wanted to see her and apologize properly for my awk- 
wardness. Something seems to be drawing us together 
strangely.” Then he spoke again of his visit to the 
Homestead, while Bertha became wonderfully animated 
as she talked of her home, and Rex, watching her, felt 
that he had never seen so beautiful a face as hers, or 
listened to a sweeter voice. “ I wonder if I am really 
falling in love,” he thought, as he helped her from the 
boat, while she was conscious of some subtle change 
wrought in her during that hour on Lake Geneva, and 
felt that life would never be to her again exactly what 
it had been. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE UNWELCOME GUEST. 

Thurston was very ill with typhoid fever, which held 
high carnival with him physically, but left him mentally 
untouched. One afternoon, the fifth after Rex’s arrival. 


140 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


the two were alone, and for some time Fred lay with 
his eyes closed and an expression of intense thought 
upon his face. Then, turning suddenly to Rex, he said, 
“ Sit close to me. I want to tell you something.” 

Rex drew his chair to the bedside, and Fred con- 
tinued, “ That idiot of a doctor has the same as told me 
I am going to die, and, though I don’t believe him, I 
can’t help feeling a little anxious about it, and I want 
you to help me get ready.” 

“ Certainly,” Rex answered, with a gasp, entirely 
misunderstanding Fred’s meaning, and wishing the’ 
task of getting his friend ready to die had devolved on 
some one else. “ We hope to pull you through, but it 
is always well to be prepared for death, and I’ll help 
you all I can. I’m afraid, though, you have called upon 
a poor stick. I might say the Lord’s Prayer with you, 
or, better yet,” and Rex grew quite cheerful, “ there’s 
a young American clergyman in the hotel. I will bring 
him to see you. He’ll know just what to say.” 

“Thunder!” Fred exclaimed, so energetically that 
Rex started from his chair. “ Don’t be a fool. I shall 
die as I have lived, and if there is a hereafter, which I 
doubt, I shall take my chance with the rest. I don’t 
want your clergy round me, though I wouldn’t object 
to hearing you say, 1 Our Father.’ It would be rather 
jolly. I used to know it with a lot o'f other things, but 
I quit it long ago, — left all the praying to Louie, who 
goes on her knees regularly night and morning in 
spite of my ridicule. Once, when she was posing beau- 
tifully, with her long, white dressing-gown spread out 
a yard or so on the floor, I walked over it on purpose 
to irritate her, but didn’t succeed. I never did succeed 
yery well with Louie. But it is more my fault than 


THE UNWELCOME GUEST. 


141 


hers, although I was fonder of her than she ever knew. 
She never pretended to love me. She told me she 
didn’t when she promised to marry me, and when I 
asked her if any one stood between us she said no, but 
added that there was somebody for whom she could 
have cared a great deal if he had cared for her. I did 
not ask her who it was, but I think I know, and she 
would have been much happier with him than with me. 
Poor Louie ! maybe she will have a chance yet ; and if 
she does I am willing.” 

His bright, feverish eyes were fixed curiously on Rex, 
as he went on, “ It’s for Louie and her matters I want 
help, not for my soul ; that’s all right, if I have one. 
Louie is a child in experience, and you must see to her 
when I am gone, and stand by her till she goes home. 
There’ll be an awful row with the landlord, and no end 
of expense, and a terrible muss to get me to America. 
My man, John, will take what there is left of me to 
Mount Auburn, if you start him right. Louie can’t go, 
and you must stay with her and Bertha. If Mrs. 
Grundy kicks up a row about your chaperoning a hand- 
some girl and a pretty young widow, — and, by Jove, 
Louie will be that, — bring your aunt to the rescue ; 
that will make it square. And now about my will. I 
made one last summer, and left everything to Louie on 
condition that she did not marry again. That was non- 
sense. She will marry if the right man offers ; — wild 
horses can’t hold her ; and I want you to draw up 
another will, with no conditions, giving a few thousands 
to the Fresh Air Fund and the Humane Society. That 
will please Louie. She’s great on children and horses. 
What is it about a mortgage on old man Leighton’s 
farm ? Louie wanted me to pay it and keep Bertha 


142 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


from going out to service, as she called it. But I was in 
one of my moods, and swore I wouldn’t. I am sorry 
now I didn’t. Maybe I have a soul, after all, and that 
is what is nagging me so when I think of the past. I 
wish I knew how much the mortgage was.” 

“ I know ; I can tell you,” Rex said, with a great deal 
of animation, as he proceeded to narrate the particulars 
of the mortgage and his visit to the Homestead, while 
Fred listened intently. 

“ Ho-ho,” he said, with a laugh, when Rex had fin- 
ished. “ Is that the way the wind blows ? I thought 
maybe — but never mind. Five hundred, is it? I’ll 
make it a thousand, payable to Bertha at once. You’ll 
find writing-materials in the desk by the window. And 
hurry up ; I’m getting infernally tired.” 

It did not take long to make the will, and when it 
was finished, Rex and Mr. Thurston’s valet John and 
Louie’s maid Martha, all Americans, witnessed it. 
After that Fred, who was greatly exhausted, fell into a 
heavy sleep, and when he awoke Bertha was alone with 
him. He seemed very feverish, and asked for water, 
which she gave him, and then bathed his forehead and 
hands, while he said to her faintly, “ You are a trump. 
I wish I’d made it two thousand instead of one ; but 
Louie will make it right. Poor Louie ! she’s going to 
be so disappointed. It’s a big joke on her. I wonder 
how she will take it.” 

Bertha had no idea what he meant, and made no re- 
ply, while he continued, “ Say, how does a fellow feel 
when he has a soul ?” 

Bertha felt sure now that he was delirious, but before 
she could answer he went on, “ I never thought I had 
one, but maybe I have. I feel so sorry for a lot of 


THE UNWELCOME GUEST. 


143 


tilings, and mostly about Louie. Tell her so when I am 
dead. Tell her I wasn’t half as bad a sort as she 
thought. It will be like her to swathe herself in crape, 
with a veil which sweeps the ground. Tell her not to. 
Black will not become her. Think of Louie in a 
widow’s cap !” 

Weak as he was, he laughed aloud at the thought of 
it, and then began to talk of the prayer which had “ for- 
give ” in it, and which Rex was to say with him. 

“ Do you know it ?” he asked, and, with her heart 
swelling in her throat, Bertha answered that she did, 
and asked if she should say it. 

He nodded, and Rex, who at that moment came un- 
observed to the door, never forgot the picture of the 
kneeling girl and the wistful, pathetic expression on the 
face of the dying man as he tried to say the words 
which had once been familiar to him. 

“ Amen ! So be it ! Finis ! I guess that makes it 
about square. Tell Louie I prayed,” he whispered, 
faintly, and never spoke again until the early morning 
sunlight was shining on the lake and the hills of Savoy, 
when he started suddenly and called, “ Louie, Louie ! 
Where are you ? I can’t find you. Oh, Louie, come to 
me.” 

But Louie was asleep in her room across the long 
salon, and when, an hour later, she awoke, Bertha told 
her that her husband was dead, 


144 


mks. hallam’s COMPANION. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TANGLED THREADS. 

As Thurston had predicted, there was a great deal of 
trouble and no end of expense ; but Rex attended to 
everything, while Bertha devoted herself to Louie, who 
had gone from one hysterical paroxysm into another 
until she was weaker and more helpless than she had 
ever been, but not too weak to talk continually of Fred, 
who, one would suppose, had been the tenderest of hus- 
bands. All she had suffered at his hands was forgotten, 
wiped out by the message he had left for her and by 
knowing that his last thoughts had been of her. But 
she spurned the idea of not wearing black, and insisted 
that boxes of mourning dresses and bonnets and caps 
should be sent to her on approbation from Geneva and 
Lausanne, until her room looked like a bazaar of crape, 
and not only Bertha and Martha, the maid, but Rex 
was more than once called in for an opinion as to what 
would be most suitable. It was rather a peculiar posi- 
tion in which Rex found himself, — two young ladies on 
his hands, with one of whom he was in love, while the 
other would unquestionably be in love with him as soon 
as her first burst of grief was over and she had settled 
the details of her wardrobe. But he did not mind it ; 
in fact, he found it delightful to be associated daily with 
Bertha, and to be constantly applied to for sympathy 
and advice by Louie, who treated him with the freedom 
and confidence of a sister, and he would not have 


TANGLED THREADS. 


145 


thought of a change, if Bertha had not suggested it. 
She had been told of the bequest which secured the 
Homestead from sale and made it no longer necessary 
for her to return to Mrs. Hallam, and she wrote at once 
asking to be released from her engagement, but saying 
she would keep it if her services were still desired. 

It was a very gracious reply which Mrs. Hallam re- 
turned to her, freeing her from all obligations to her- 
self, while something in the tone of the letter made 
Bertha suspect that all was not as rose-colored at Aix as 
it had been, and that Mrs. Hallam would be glad to 
make one of the party at Ouchy. This she said to Rex, 
suggesting that he should invite his aunt to join them, 
and urging so strongly the propriety of either bringing 
her to him, or going himself to her, that he finally 
wrote to his aunt to come to him, and immediately re- 
ceived a reply that she would be with him the next 
day. Rex met her at the station in Lausanne, and 
Bertha received her at the hotel as deferentially and 
respectfully as if she were still her hired companion, a 
condition which Mrs. Hallam had made up her mind to 
ignore, especially as it no longer existed between them. 
Taking both Bertha’s hands in hers, she kissed her 
effusively and told her how much better she was look- 
ing since she left Aix. 

“ And no wonder,” she said. “ The air there was not 
good, and either that or something made me very 
nervous, so that I did things for which I am sorry, and 
which I hope you will forget.” 

This was a great concession which Bertha received 
graciously, and the two were on the best of terms when 
they entered Louie’s room. Louie had improved 
rapidly during the week, and was sitting in an easy- 


146 


MRS. hallam’s companion. 


chair by the window, clad in a most becoming tea- 
gown fashioned at Worth’s for the first stages of deep 
mourning, and looking more like a girl of eighteen 
than a widow of twenty-five. Notwithstanding her 
husband’s assertion that black would not become her, 
she had never been half so lovely as she was in her 
weeds, and her face was never so fair as when framed 
in her little crepe bonnet and widow’s cap, which sat so 
jauntily on her golden hair. “ Dazzlingly beautiful and 
altogether irresistible,” was Mrs. Hallam’s opinion as 
the days went by, and Louie grew more and more 
cheerful and sometimes forgot to put Fred’s photograph 
under her pillow, and began to talk less of him and 
more to Rex, whose attentions she claimed with an air 
of ownership which would have amused Bertha if she 
could have put from her the harrowing thought of 
what might be a year hence, when the grave at Mount 
Auburn was not as new, or Louie's loss as fresh, as they 
were now. 

“ He cannot help loving her,” she would say to her- 
self, “ and I ought to be glad to have her happy with 
him.” 

But she was not glad, and it showed in her face, whose 
expression Rex could not understand. Louie’s was one 
of those natures which, without meaning to be selfish, 
make everything subservient to them. She was always 
the centre about which others revolved, and Rex was 
her willing slave, partly because of Thurston’s dying 
charge, and partly because he could not resist her pretty 
appealing ways, and would not if he could. But he 
never dreamed of associating his devotion to her with 
Bertha’s growing reserve. She was his real queen, 
without whom his life at Ouchy would have been very 


TANGLED THREADS. 


147 


irksome, and when she suggested going home, as Dorcas 
had written urging her to do, he protested against it 
almost as strenuously as Louie. She must stay, both 
said, until she had seen something of Europe besides 
Aix and Ouchy. So she stayed, and they spent Sep- 
tember at Interlaken and Lucerne, October in Paris, 
and November at the Italian lakes, where she received 
a letter from Grace, written in New York and signed 
“ Grace Haynes Travis.” 

“ We were married yesterday,” she wrote, “ and 
to-morrow we start for our Florida cabin and orange- 
grove, near Orlando, where so many English people 
have settled. Mother gave in handsomely at the last, 
when she found there was no help for it, and I actually 
won over Lady Gresham, who used to think me a Hot- 
tentot, and always spoke of me as ‘ that dreadful Ameri- 
can girl.’ She invited mother and me to her country 
house, The Limes, near London, and suggested that 
Jack and I be married there. But I preferred New 
York ; so she gave us her blessing and a thousand 
pounds, and mother, Jack, and I sailed three vreeks ago 
in the Umbria. When are you coming home ? and how 
is that pretty little Mrs. Thurston ? I saw her once, and 
thought her very lovely, with that sweet, clinging, help- 
less manner which takes with men wonderfully. I have 
heard that she was an old flame of Rex Hallam’s, or 
rather a young one, but I’ll trust you to win him, 
although as a widow she is dangerous ; so, in the words 
of the immortal Weller, I warn you, ‘ Bevare Of vid- 
ders.’ ” 

There was much more in the same strain, and Bertha 
laughed over it, but felt a pang for which she hated her- 
self every time she looked at Louie, whose beauty and 


148 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


grace drew about her many admirers besides Rex, in 
spite of her black dress and her frequent allusions to 
“ dear Fred, whose grave was so far away.” She was 
growing stronger every day, and when in December Rex 
received a letter from his partner saying that his pres- 
ence in New York was rather necessary, she declared 
herself equal to the journey, and said that if Rex went 
she should go too. Consequently the ist of January 
found them all in London, where they were to spend a 
few days, and where Rex brought his aunt a letter, 
addressed, bottom side up, to “ Mrs. Lucy Ann Hallam, 
Care of Brown, Shipley & Co., London. Post Restart.” 

There was a gleam of humor in Rex’s eyes as he 
handed the missive to his aunt, whose face grew dark 
as she studied the outside, and darker still at the inside, 
which was wonderful in composition and orthography. 
Phineas Jones had been sent out to Scotland by an old 
man who had some property there and who knew he 
could trust Phineas to look after it and bring him back 
the rental, which he had found it hard to collect. After 
transacting his business, Phineas had decided to travel 
a little and “get cultivated up, so that his cousin Lucy 
Ann shouldn’t be ashamed of him.’’ Had he known 
where she was, he would have joined her, but, as he did 
not he wrote her a letter, which had in it a great deal 
about Sturbridge and the old yellow house and the huck- 
leberry pasture and the circus and the spelling-school, all 
of which filled Mrs. Hallam with disgust. She was his 
only blood kin extant, he said, and he yearned to see 
her, but supposed he must wait till she was back in New 
York, when he should pay his respects to her at once. 
And she wouldn’t be ashamed of him, either. He knew 
what was what, and had hob-a-nobbed with nobility, 


ON THE SEA. 


149 


.who took a sight of notice of him. He was going to 
sail the ioth in the Germanic, he said, and if she’d let 
him know when she was coming home he’d be in New 
York on the wharf to meet her. 

As it chanced, the Germanic was the boat in which 
the Hallam party had taken passage for the ioth, but 
Mrs. Hallam suddenly discovered that she had not seen 
enough of Loudon ; Rex could go, if he must, but she 
should wait for the next boat of the same line. Rex 
had no suspicion as to the real reason for her change of 
mind, and, as a week or two could make but little dif- 
ference in the business calling him home, he stayed, 
and when the next boat of the White Star line sailed out 
of the docks of Liverpool it carried the party of four : 
Louie, limp and tearful as she thought of her husband 
who had been with her when she crossed before ; Mrs. 
Hallam, excited and nervous, half expecting to see 
Phineas pounce upon her, and haunted with a presenti- 
ment that he was somewhere on the ship; and Rex, 
with Bertha, hunting for the spot where he had first 
seen her and knocked her down. 


' CHAPTER XVII. 

ON THE SEA. 

It was splendid weather for a few days, and no one 
thought of being sea-sick, except Mrs. Hallam, who 
kept her room, partly because she thought she must, 
and partly because she could not shake off the feeling 


150 HRS. HALLAM's CJOMPANiOtf. 

that Phineas was on board. She had read the few 
names on the passenger-list, but his was not among 
them, nor did she expect to find it, as he had sailed two 
weeks before. Still, she would neither go on deck nor 
into the dining-saloon, and without being really ill, kept 
her berth and was waited upon by Eloise, who was ac- 
companying her home. Loyie, who was still delicate 
and who always shrank from cold, stayed mostly in the 
salon. But the briny, bracing sea air suited Bertha, and 
for several hours each day she walked the deck with 
Rex, whose arm was sometimes thrown around her 
when the ship gave a great lurch, or when on turning a 
corner they met the wind full in their faces. Then 
there were the moonlight nights, when the air was full of 
frost and the waves were like burnished silver, and in 
her sealskin coat and cap, which Louie had bought for 
her in Geneva, Bertha was never tired of walking and 
never thought of the cold, for, if the exercise had not 
kept her warm, the light which shone upon her from 
Rex’s eyes when she met their gaze would have done 
so. Perhaps he looked the same at Louie, — very likely 
he did, — but for the present he was hers alone, and she 
was supremely happy while the fine, warm weather 
lasted and with it the companionship on deck. But 
suddenly there came a change. 

Along the western coast of the Atlantic a wild storm 
had been raging, and when it subsided there it swept 
towards the east, gathering force as it went, and, joined 
by the angry winds from every point of the compass, it 
was almost a cyclone when it reached the Teutonic. 
But the great ship met it bravely, mounting wave after 
wave like a feather, then plunging down into the green 
depths below, then rising again and shaking off the 


6N THE SEA. 


151 


water as if the boiling sea were a mere plaything and the 
storm gotten lip for its pastime. The passengers, who 
were told that there was no real danger, kept up their 
courage while the day lasted, but when the night came 
on and the darkness grew deeper in the salon, where 
nearly all were assembled, many a face grew white 
with fear as they listened to the howling of the wind 
and the roaring of the sea, while wave after wave 
struck the ship, which sometimes seemed to stand still, 
and then, trembling in every joint, rose up to meet the 
angry waves which beat upon it with such tremendous 
force. 

Early in the day Louie had taken to her bed, where 
she lay sobbing bitterly, while Bertha tried to comfort 
her. As the darkness was increasing and the noise 
overhead grew more and more deafening, Rex brought 
his aunt to the salon, where, like many of the others, 
she sat down upon the floor, clinging to one of the 
chairs for support. Then he went to Louie and asked 
if he should not take her there too. 

“ No, no ! oh, no !” she moaned. “ I’d rather die 
here, if you will stay with me.” 

Just then a roll of the ship sent her out upon the 
floor, where every movable thing in the room had gone 
before her. After that she made no further resistance, 
but suffered Bertha to wrap her waterproof around her, 
and was then carried by Rex and deposited upon one 
end of a table, where she lay, too much frightened to 
move, with Rex supporting her on one side and Bertha 
on the other. And still the storm raged on, and the 
white faces grew whiter as the question was asked, 
“ What will the end be ?” In every heart there was a 
prayer, and Rex’s mind went back to that night at the 


152 


MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION, 


Homestead and the prayers for those in peril on the 
deep. Were they praying now, and would their prayers 
avail, or would the sad news go to them that their 
loved one was lying far down in the depths of the sea ? 

“Oh, if I could save her !” he thought, moving his 
hand along upon the table until it touched and held 
hers in a firm clasp which seemed to say, “ For life or 
death you are mine.” 

Just then Louie began to shiver, and moaned that 
she was cold. 

“ Wait a minute, darling,” Bertha said, “ and I will 
bring you a blanket from our state-room, if I can get 
there.” 

This was no easy task, for the ship was plunging 
fearfully, and always at an angle which made walking 
difficult. Twice Bertha fell upon her knees, and once 
struck her head against the side of the passage, but she 
reached the room at last, and, securing the blanket, was 
turning to retrace her steps, when a wave heavier than 
any which had preceded it struck the vessel, which 
reeled with what one of the sailors called a double X, 
pitching and rolling sidewise and endwise and corner- 
wise all at once. To stand was impossible, and with a 
cry Bertha fell forward into the arms of Rex Hallam. 

“ Rex !” she said, involuntarily, and “ Bertha !” he 
replied, showering kisses upon her face, down which 
the tears were running like rain. 

She had been gone so long that he had become 
alarmed at her absence, and with great difficulty had 
made his way to the state-room, which he reached in 
time to save her from a heavy fall. Both were thrown 
upon the lounge under the window, where they sat for 
a moment, breathless and forgetful of their danger, 


on THE SEA. 


m 


Bertha was the first to speak, saying she must go to 
Louie, but Rex held her fast, and, steadying himself as 
best he could, drew her face close to his, and said, 
“ This is not a time for love-making, but I may never 
have another chance, and, if we must die, death will be 
robbed of half its terrors if you are with me, my dar- 
ling, my queen, whom I believe I have loved ever since 
I saw your photograph and thought it was poor Rose 
Arabella Jefferson.” 

He could not repress a smile at the remembrance of 
that scion of the Jeffersons, but Bertha did not see it. 
Her head was lying upon his breast, and he was hold- 
ing to the side of the door to keep from being thrown 
upon the floor as he urged his suit and then waited for 
her answer. Against the windows and the dead-lights 
the waves were dashing furiously, while overhead was 
a roar like heavy cannonading, mingled with the hoarse 
shouts of voices calling through the storm. But Rex 
heard Bertha’s answer, and at the peril of his limbs 
folded her in his arms and said, “Now we live or die 
together ; and I think that we shall live.” 

Naturally they forgot the blanket and everything else 
as they groped their way back to the door of the salon, 
where Rex stopped suddenly at the sound of a voice 
heard distinctly enough for him to know that some one 
was praying loudly and earnestly, and to know, too, 
who it was whose clear, nasal tones could be heard 
above the din without. 

“ Phineas Jones!” he exclaimed. “Great Caesar! 
how came he here ?” And he struggled in with Bertha 
to get nearer to him.” 

Phineas had been very ill in Liverpool, and when the 
Germanic left he was still in bed, and was obliged to 


154 


Mfts. HALLAM*S COMPAtfiOtf. 


wait two weeks longer, when he took passage on the 
same ship with Mrs. Hallam. Even then he was so 
weak that he did not make up his mind to go until an 
hour before the ship sailed. As there were few pas- 
sengers, he had no difficulty in securing a berth, where 
during the first days of the voyage he lay horribly sea- 
sick and did not know who were on board. He had 
been too late for his name to be included in the passen- 
ger-list, and it was not until the day of the storm that 
he learned that Mrs. Hallam and Rex and Bertha were 
on the ship. To find them at once was his first impulse, 
but when the cyclone struck the boat it struck him, too, 
with a fresh attack of sea-sickness, from which he did 
not rally until night, when he would not be longer 
restrained. Something told him, he said, that Lucy Ann 
needed him, — in fact, that they all needed him in the 
cabin, and he was going there. And he went, nearly 
breaking his neck. Entering the salon on his hands and 
knees, he made his way to the end of the table on which 
Louie lay, and near which Mrs. Hallam was clinging 
desperately to a chair as she crouched upon the floor. 
It was at this moment that the double X which had sent 
Bertha into Rex’s arms struck the ship, eliciting shrieks 
of terror from the passengers, who felt that the end had 
come. Steadying himself against a corner of the table, 
Phineas called out, in a loud, penetrating voice : 

“ Silence ! This is no time to scream and cry. It is 
action you want. Pray to be delivered, as Jonah did. 
The captain and crew are doing their level best on deck. 
Let us do ours here, and don’t you worry. We shall be 
heard. The Master who stilled the storm on Galilee is 
in this boat, and not asleep, either, in the hindermost 
part. If He was, no human could get to Him, with the 


ON Tltti SfiA, 


155 


Ship nearly bottom side up. He is in our midst. I 
know it, I feel it ; and you who are too scart to pray, 
and you who don’t know how, listen to me. Let us 
pray.’* 

The effect was electric, and every head was bowed as 
Phineas began the most remarkable prayer which was 
ever offered on shipboard. He was in deadly earnest, 
and, fired with the fervor and eloquence which made 
him so noted as a class-leader, he informed the Lord of 
the condition they were in and instructed Him how to 
improve it. Galilee, he said, was nothing to the Atlantic 
when on a tear as it was now, but the voice which had 
quieted the waters of Tiberias could stop this uproar. 
He presumed some of them ought to be drowned, he 
said, but they didn’t want to be, and were going to do 
better. Then he confessed every possible sin which 
might have been committed by the passengers, who, 
according to his statement, were about the wickedest 
lot, take them as a whole, that ever crossed the 
ocean. There were exceptions, of course. There were 
near and dear friends of his, and one blood kin, on 
board, for whom he especially asked aid. He had not 
looked upon the face of his kinswoman for years, but he 
had never forgotten the sweet counsel they took together 
when children in Sturbridge, and he would have her 
saved any way. Like himself, she was old and stricken 
in years, but ” 

“ Horrible !” came in muffled tones from something 
at his feet, and, looking down, he saw the bundle of 
shawls, which, in its excitement, had loosened its hold 
on the chair and was rolling down the inclined plane 
towards the centre of the room. 

Reaching out his long arm, he pulled it back, and, 


156 


MRS, HALLAM*S COMrANIOtf. 


putting bis foot against it, went on with what was now 
a prayer of thanksgiving. Those who have been in a 
storm at sea like the one I am describing, will remem- 
ber how quick they were to detect a change for the 
better, as the blows upon the ship became less frequent 
and heavy and the noise overhead began to subside. 

Phineas was the first to notice it, and, with his foot 
still firmly planted against the struggling bundle to 
keep it in place, he exclaimed, in a voice which was 
almost a shriek : 

“ We are saved ! We are saved ! Don’t you feel it ? 
Don’t you hear it ?” 

They did hear it and feel it, and with glad hearts re- 
sponded to the words of thanksgiving which Phineas 
poured forth, saying the answer to his prayer had come 
sooner than he expected, and acknowledging that his 
faith had been weak as water. Then he promised a 
forsaking of their sins, and a life more consistent with 
the doctrine they professed, for them all, adapting him- 
self as nearly as he could to the forms of worship familiar 
to the different denominations he knew must be assem- 
bled there. For the Presbyterians there was a men- 
tion made of foreordination and the Westminster Cate- 
chism, for the Baptists, immersion, for the Methodists, 
sanctification, for the Roman Catholics, the Blessed 
Virgin ; but he forgot the Episcopalians, until, remem- 
bering, with a start, Rex and Lucy Ann, he wound up 
with : 

“ From pride, vainglory and hypocrisy, good Lord 
deliver us. Amen.” 

The simple earnestness of the man so impressed his 
hearers that no one thought of smiling at his ludicrous 
language, and when the danger was really over and 


ON THE SEA. 


157 


they could stand upon their feet, they crowded around 
him as if he had been their deliverer from deadly peril, 
while Rex introduced him as his particular friend. 
This stamped him as somebody, and he at once became 
a sort of lion. We are all more or less susceptible to 
flattery, and Phineas was not an exception ; he received 
the attentions with a very satisfied air, thinking to him- 
self that if his recent prayers had so impressed them, 
what would they say if they could hear him when fully 
under way at a camp-meeting ? 

“ Where’s your aunt?” he asked Rex, suddenly, while 
Rex looked round for her, but could not find her. 

More dead than alive, Mrs. Hallam had clung to the 
chair in momentary expectation of going down, never 
to rise again, and in that awful hour it seemed to her 
that everything connected with her life had passed be- 
fore her. The old, yellow house, the grandmother to 
whom she had not always been kind, the early friends 
of whom she had been ashamed, the husband she 
had loved, but whom she had tried so often, all stood 
out so vividly that it seemed as if she could touch 
them. 

“ Everything bad, — nothing good. May God forgive 
it all !” she whispered more than once, as she lay wait- 
ing for the end and shuddering as she thought of the 
dark, cold waters so soon to engulf her. 

In this state of mind she became conscious that some 
one was standing so close to her that his boots held 
down a portion of her dress, but she did not mind it, for 
at that moment Phineas began his prayer, to which 
she listened intently. She knew it was an illiterate 
man, that his boots were coarse, that his clothes were 
saturated with an odor of cheap tobacco, and that ho 


158 


MRS. HALLAm’s COMPANION. 


belonged to a class which she despised because she had 
once been of it. But as he prayed she felt, as she had 
never felt before, the Presence he said was there with 
him, and thought nothing of his class, or his tobacco, 
or his boots. He was a saint, until he spoke of Stur- 
bridge and his blood kin who was old and stricken in 
years. Then she knew who the saint was, and as soon 
as it was possible to do so she escaped to her state-room, 
where Rex found her in a state of great nervous ex- 
citement. She could not and would not see Phineas 
that night, she said. Possibly she might be equal to it 
in the morning. With that message Phineas, who was 
hovering around her door, was obliged to be content, 
but before he retired, every one with whom he talked 
knew that Mrs. Hallam was his cousin Lucy Ann, 
whom he used to know in Sturbridge when she was a 
girl. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

ON SEA AND LAND. 

Naturally the captain and officers made light of the 
storm after it was over, citing, as a proof that it was 
not so very severe, the fact that within four hours after 
it began to subside the ship was sailing smoothly over 
a comparatively calm sea, on which the moon and stars 
were shining as brightly as if it had not so recently 
been stirred to its depths. The deck had been cleared, 
and, after seeing Louie in her berth, Bertha went up to 
join Rex, who was waiting for her. All the past peril 


ON SEA AND LAND. 


159 


was forgotten in the joy of their perfect love, and they 
had so much to talk about and so many plans for the 
future to discuss that the midnight bells sounded be- 
fore they separated. 

“ It is not very long till morning, when I shall see 
you again, nor long before you will be all my own,” 
Rex said, holding her in his arms and kissing her many 
times before he let her go. 

She found Louie asleep, and when next morning 
Bertha arose as the first gong sounded, Louie was still 
sleeping, exhausted with the excitement of the previous 
da}\ She was evidently dreaming, for there was a 
smile on her lips which moved once with some word 
Bertha could not catch, although it sounded like 
“ Rex.” 

“ I wonder if she cares very much for him,” Bertha 
thought, with a twinge of pain. “ If she does, I cannot 
give him up, for he is mine, — my Rex.” 

She repeated the name aloud, lingering over it as if 
the sound were very pleasant to her, and just then 
Louie’s blue eyes opened and looked inquiringly at 
her. 8 

“ What is it about Rex ?” she asked, smiling up at 
Bertha in that pretty, innocent way which children 
have of smiling when waking from sleep. “ Has he 
been to inquire for me ?” she continued ; and, feeling 
that she could no longer put it off, Bertha knelt beside 
ler and told her a story which made the bright color 
fade from Louie’s face and her lips quiver in a grieved 
kind of way as she listened to it. 

When it was finished she did not say a word, except 
to ask if it was not very cold. 

“ I am all in a shiver, I think I will not get up. T$ll 


160 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


Martha not to come to me. I do not want any break- 
fast,” she said, as she turned her face to the wall. 

For a moment Bertha lingered, perplexed and pained, 
— then started to leave the room. 

“ Wait,” Louie called, faintly, and when Bertha went 
to her she flung her arms around her neck and said, 
with a sob, “ I am glad for you, and I know you will be 
happy. Tell Rex I congratulate him. And now go and 
don’t come back for ever so long. I am tired and want 
to sleep.” 

When she was alone, the little woman buried her face 
in the pillows and cried like a child, trying to believe 
she was crying for her husband, but failing dismally. 
It Was for Rex, whom she had held dearer than she 
knew, and whom she had lost. But with all her weak- 
ness Louie had a good deal of common sense, which 
soon came to her aid. “ This is absurd, — crying for one 
who does not care for me except as a friend. I’ll be a 
woman, and not a baby,” she thought, as she rung for 
Martha to come and dress her. An hour later she sur- 
prised Bertha and Rex, who were sitting on a seat at 
the head of the stairs, with a rug thrown across their 
laps, concealing the hands clasped so tightly beneath it. 
Nothing could have been sweeter than her manner as 
she congratulated Rex verbally, and then, sitting down 
by them, began to plan the grand wedding she would 
give them if they would wait until poor Fred had been 
dead a little longer, say a year. 

Rex had his own ideas about the wedding and wait- 
ing, but he did not express them then. He had settled 
in his own mind when he should take Bertha, and that 
it would be from the old house in which he began to 
have a feeling of ownership. 


ON SEA AND LAND. 


161 


Meanwhile Mrs. Hallam had consented to see 
Phineas, whom Rex took to her state-room. What 
passed at the interview no one knew. It did not last 
long, and at its close Mrs. Hallam had a nervous head- 
ache and Phineas’s face wore a troubled and puzzled 
expression. He would never have known Lucy Ann, 
she had altered so, he said. Not grown old, as he sup- 
posed she would, but different somehow. He guessed 
she was tuckered out with fright and the storm. She’d 
be better when she got home, and then they’d have a 
good set-to, talking of the old times. He was going to 
visit her a few days. 

This accounted for her headache which lasted the 
rest of the voyage, so that she did not appear again un- 
til they were at the dock in New York. Handing her 
keys to Rex, she said, “ See to my trunks, and for 
heaven’s sake-keep that man from coming to the house, 
if you have to strangle him.” 

She was among the first to leave the ship, and was 
driving rapidly home, while Phineas was squabbling 
with a custom-house officer over some jewelry he had 
bought in Edinburgh as a present for Dorcas, and an 
overcoat in London for Mr. Leighton, and which he had 
conscientiously declared. 

“ I’m a class-leader,” he said, “ and I’d smile to see 
me lie, and when they asked me if I had any presents I 
told ’m yes, a coat for the ’Square, and some cangorms 
for Dorcas, and I swan if they didn’t make me trot ’em 
out and pay duty, too ; and they let more’n fifty trunks 
full of women’s clothes go through for nothin’. I seen 
’m. Where’s Lucy Ann ? I was goin’ with her,” he 
said to Rex. who COCld have enlightened him with re. 


162 


MRS. HALLAM’s COMPANION. 


gard to the women’s clothes which “ went through for 
nothin’,” but didn’t. 

“Mr. Jones,” he said, buttonholing him familiarly as 
they walked out of the custom-house, “ my aunt has 
gone home. She is not feeling well at all, and, as the 
house is not quite in running order, I do not think 
you’d better go there now. I'll take you to dine at my 
club, or, better yet, to the Waldorf, where Mrs. Thurs- 
ton and Miss Leighton are to stop, and to-morrow we 
will all go on together, for I’m to see Mrs. Thurston 
home to Boston, and on my way back shall stop at the 
Homestead. I am to marry Miss Bertha.” 

“You be ! Well, I’m glad on’t ; but I do want to see 
Lucy Ann’s house, and I sha’n’t make an atom of 
trouble. She expects me,” Phineas said, and Rex re- 
plied, “ I hardly think she does. Indeed, I know she 
doesn’t, and I wouldn’t go if I were you.” 

Gradually the truth began to dawn upon Phineas, 
and there was a pathos in his voice and a moisture in 
his eyes as he said, “ Is Lucy Ann ashamed of me ? I 
wouldn’t have believed it, and she my only kin. I’d go 
through fire and water to serve her. Tell her so, and 
God bless her.” 

Rex felt a great pity for the simple-hearted man to 
whom the glories of a dinner at the Waldorf did not 
quite atone for the loss of Lucy Ann, whom he spoke of 
again when after dinner Rex went with him to the hotel, 
where he was to spend the night. 

“ I’m an awkward critter, I know,” he said, “ and not 
used to the ways of high society, but I’m respectable, 
and my heart is as big as an ox.” 

Nothing, however, rested long on Phineas’s mind, and 
the next morning he was cheerful as ever when he 


“ I, REX, TAKE THEE, BERTH A.” 163 

met his friends at the station, and committed the un- 
wonted extravagance of taking a chair with them in a 
parlor car, saying as he seated himself that he’d never 
been in one before, and that he found it tip-top. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“i, REX, TAKE THEE, BERTHA.” 

The words were said in the old Homestead about a 
year from the time when we first saw Bertha walking 
along the lane to meet her sister and holding in her hand 
the newspaper which had been the means of her meet- 
ing with Rex Hallam. The May day had been perfect 
then, and it was perfect now. The air was odorous with 
the perfume of the pines and the apple-blossoms, and 
the country seemed as fresh and fair as when it first 
came from the hands of its Creator. The bequest 
which Fred had made to Bertha, and which he wished 
he had doubled, had been quadrupled by Louie, who, 
when Bertha declined to take so much, had urged it 
upon her as a bridal present in advance. With that 
understanding Bertha had accepted it, and several 
changes had been made in the Homestead, both outside 
and in. Bertha’s room, however, where Rex had once 
slept, remained intact. This he insisted upon, and it 
was in this room that he received his bride from the 
hands of her bridesmaids. It was a very quiet affair, 
with only a few intimate friends from Worcester and 
Leicester, and Mrs. Hallam from New York. Bertha 


164 


MliS. II ALT. AM S COMPANION,. 


had suggested inviting Mrs. Haynes, but Rex vetoed 
that decidedly. She had been the direct cause of so much 
humiliation to Bertha that he did not care to keep 
her acquaintance, he said. But Mrs. Haynes had no 
intention to be ignored by the future Mrs. Rex Hal- 
lam, and one of the handsomest presents Bertha received 
came from her, with a note of congratulation. Louie 
and Phineas were master and mistress of ceremonies, 
Louie inside and Phineas outside, where he insisted 
upon caring for the horses of those who drove from 
Worcester and the village. 

He’d “ smile if he couldn’t do it up ship-shape,” he 
said, and he came at an early hour, gorgeous in swallow- 
tail coat, white vest, stove-pipe hat, and an immense 
amount of shirt-front, ornamented with Rhine-stone 
studs. In his ignorance he did not know that a dress- 
coat was not just as suitable for morning as evening 
and had bought one second-hand at a clothing-store in 
Boston. He wanted to make a good impression on 
Lucy Ann, he said to Grace, who had been at the Home- 
stead two or three days, and who, declaring him a most 
delicious specimen, had hobnobbed with him quite 
familiarly. She told him she had no doubt he would 
impress Lucy Ann ; and he did, for she came near faint- 
ing when he presented himself to her, asking what she 
thought of his outfit, and how it would “do for high.” 
She wanted to tell him that he would look far better in 
his every-day clothes than in that costume, but restrained 
herself and made some non-committal reply. Since 
meeting him on the ship she had had time to reflect 
that no one whose opinion was really worth caring for 
would think less of her because of her relatives, and she 
was a little ashamed of her treatment of him. Perhaps, 


tC I, &EX, TAKE THEE, BERTHA. ’* 1C5 

too, she was softened by the sight of the old homestead, 
which had been her husband’s home, or Grace Travis’s 
avowal that she wished she had just such a dear codgti 1 
of a cousin, might have had some effect in making her 
civil and even gracious to the man who, without the 
least resentment for her former slight of him, “ Cousin 
Lucy Ann ”-ed her continually and led her up to salute 
the bride after the ceremony was over. 

There was a wedding breakfast, superintended by 
Louie, who, if she felt any regret for the might-have- 
been, did not show it, and was bright and merry as a 
bird, talking a little of Fred and a great deal of Charlie 
Sinclair, whom business kept from the w’edding and 
whose lovely present she had helped select. The wed- 
ding trip was to extend beyond the Rockies as far as 
Tacoma, and to include the Fair in Chicago on the 
homeward journey. The remainder of the summer 
was to be spent at the Homestead, where Rex could 
hunt and fish and row to his heart’s content, if he could 
not have a fox-hunt. Both he and Bertha wished a 
home of their own in New York, but Mrs. Hallam 
begged so hard for them to stay with her for a year at 
least that they consented to do so. 

“ You may be the mistress, or the daughter of the 
house, as you please, only stay with me,” Mrs. Hallam 
said to Bertha, of whom she seemed very fond. 

Evidently she was on her best behavior, and during 
the few days she stayed at the Homestead she quite won 
the hearts of both Mr. Leighton and Dorcas, and greatly 
delighted Phineas by asking him to spend the second 
week in July with her. In this she was politic and 
managing. She knew he was bound to come some time, 
and, knowing that the most of her calling aquaintance 


166 


MRS. HALL AM S COMPANION. 


would be out of town in July, she fixed his visit at 
that time, making him understand that he could not 
prolong it, as she was to join Rex and Bertha in Chicago 
on the 15th. Had he been going^to visit the queen, 
Phineas could not have been more elated or have talked 
more about it. 

“ I hope I sha’n’t mortify Lucy Ann to death,” he said, 
and when in June Louie came for a few days to the 
Homestead, he asked her to give him some points in eti- 
quette, which he wrote down and studied diligently, till 
he considered himself quite equal to cope with any diffi- 
culty, and at the appointed time packed his dress-suit 
and started for New York. 

This was Monday, and on Saturday Dorcas was sur- 
prised to see him walking up the avenue from the car. 

He’d had a tip-top time, he said, and Lucy Ann did 
all she could to make it pleasant. 

“But, my!” he added, “it was so lonesome and 
grand and stiff ; and didn’t Lucy Ann put on the 
style ! But I studied my notes, and held my own pretty 
well. I don’t think I made more than three or four 
blunders. I reached out and got a piece of bread with 
my fork, and saw a thunder-cloud on Lucy Ann’s face ; 
and I put on my dress-suit one morning to drive to the 
Park, but took it off quicker when Lucy Ann saw it. 
Dress-coats ain’t the thing in the morning, it seems. 
I guess they ain’t the thing for me anywhere. But my 
third blunder was wiistof all, though I don’t understand 
it. Between you ’n’ I, I don’t believe Lucy Ann has 
much company, for not a livin’ soul come to the house 
while I was there, except one woman with two men in 
tall boots drivin’ her. Lucy Ann was out and the nig- 
ger was out, and I went to the door to save the girls 


167 


U t, REX, TAKE THEE, BERTHA.* * 

from runnin’ up and down stairs so much. I told her 
Mis’ Hallam wa’n’t to home, and I rather urged her to 
come in and take a chair, she looked so kind of disap- 
pointed and tired, and curi’s, too, I thought, as if she 
wondered w.ho I was ; so I said, ‘ I'm Mis’ Hallam’s 
cousin. You better come in and rest. She’ll be home 
pretty soon.’ 

“ ‘ Thanks,' she said, in a queer kind of way, and 
handed me a card for Lucy Ann, who was tearin’ when 
I told her what I’d done. It was the servants’ business 
to wait on the door when Peters was out, she said, and 
on no account was I to ask any one in if she wasn’t 
there. That ain’t my idea of hospitality. Is’t yours ?” 

Dorcas laughed, and said she supposed city ways 
were not exactly like those of the country. Phineas 
guessed they wasn't, and he was glad to get where he 
could tip back in his chair if he wanted to, and eat with 
his knife, and ask a friend to come in and sit down. 

A few days later Dorcas and her father, with Louie, 
started for Chicago to join the Hallams. For four 
weeks they reveled in the wonders of the beautiful 
White City. After that Mrs. Hallam returned to her 
lonely house in New York, while Rex and Bertha and 
Louie went back to the old Homestead. There they 
spent the remainder of the summer, and there Bertha 
lingered'until the hazy light of October was beginning 
to hang over the New England hills and the autumnal 
tints to show in the woods. Then Rex, who had spent 
every Sunday there, took her to her new home, where 
her reception was very different from what it had been 
on her first arrival. Then she was only a hired com- 
panion, dining with the housekeeper and waiting on 
the fourth floor back for her employer to give her an 


168 MRS. hallam's companion. 

audience. Now she was a petted bride, the daughter 
of the house, with full authority to go where she pleased, 
do what she pleased, and make any change she pleased, 
from the drawing-room to the handsome suite which 
had been fitted up for her. But she made no change, 
except in Rex’s sleeping-apartment, where she did 
take the pictures of ballet-dancers, rope-walkers, and 
sporting men from the mirror-frame, and substi- 
tuted in their place those of her father, Dorcas, and 
Grace. She would have liked to remove her own 
picture, with “ Rose Arabella Jefferson ” written upon 
it, but Rex interfered. It seemed to him, he said, a 
connecting link between his bachelor life and the great 
joy which had come to him, and it should stay there, 
Rose Arabella and all. 

Mr. Leighton and Dorcas have twice visited Bertha 
in her home, and been happy there because she was so 
happy. But both were glad to go back to the old house 
under the apple-trees and the country life which they 
like best. Bertha, on the contrary, takes readily to the 
ways of the great city, although she cares but little for 
the fashionable society that is so eager to take her up, 
and prefers the companionship of her husband and the 
quiet of her home to the gayest assemblage in New 
York. Occasionally however, she may be seen at some 
afternoon tea, or dinner, or reception, where Mrs. 
Hallam is proud to introduce her as “my nephew’s 
wife,” while Mrs. Walker Haynes, always politic and 
persistent, speaks of her as “ my friend, that charming 
Mrs. Reginald Hallam. ” 


THE SPRING FARM. 


CHAPTER I. 

AT THE FARM HOUSE. 

It was a very pleasant, homelike old farmhouse, 
standing among the New England hills, with the sum- 
mer sunshine falling upon it, and the summer air, 
sweet with the perfume of roses and June pinks, filling 
the wide hall and great square rooms, where, on the 
morning when our story opens, the utmost confusion 
prevailed. Carpets were up ; curtains were down ; 
huge boxes were standing everywhere, while into them 
two men and a boy were packing the furniture scat- 
tered promiscuously around, for on the morrow the 
family, who had owned and occupied the house so long, 
were to leave the premises and seek another home in the 
little village about two miles away. In one of the 
lower rooms in the wing to the right, where the sun- 
shine was the brightest and the rose-scented air the 
sweetest, a white-faced woman lay upon a couch looking 
at and listening to a lady who sat talking to her, with 

[169] 


170 


tHE SPRING FARM. 


money and pride and selfishness stamped upon her a3 
plainly as if the words had been placarded upon her 
back. The lady was Mrs. Marshall-More, of Boston 
whose handsome country house was not far from the 
red farm-house, which, with its rich, well-cultivated 
acres, had, by the foreclosure of a mortgage she held 
upon it, recently come into her possession, or rather 
into that of her half brother, who had bidden it off for 
her. 

Mrs. Marshall-More had once been plain Mrs. John 
More, but since her husband’s death, she had prefixed 
her maiden name, with a hyphen to the More, making 
herself Mrs. Marshall-More, which, she thought, had a 
very aristocratic look and sound. She was a great lady 
in her own immediate circle of friends in the city, and 
a greater lady in Merrivale, where she passed her sum- 
mers, and her manner toward the little woman on the 
couch was one of infinite superiority and patronage, 
mingled with a show of interest and pity. She had 
driven to the farmhouse that morning, ostensibly to 
say good-bye to the family, but really to go over the 
place which she had coveted so long as a most desir- 
able adjunct to her possessions. What she was saying 
to the white-faced woman in the widow’s cap was 
this : 

“ I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, and I hope 
you do not blame me for foreclosing the mortgage. I 
had to have the money, for Archie’s college expenses 
will be very heavy, and then I am going to Europe this 
summer, and I did not care to draw from my other in- 
vestments.” 

“ Oh, no, I blame no one, but it is very hard all the 
same to leave the old home where I have been so 


AT THE FARM HOUSE. 


Ill 


happy,” Mrs. Graham replied, and Mrs. Marshall-More 
went on : “I am glad to hear you say so, for the Mer- 
rivale people have been very ill-natured about it and I 
have heard more than once that I hastened the fore- 
closure and intend to tear down the old house and 
build a cottage, which is false.” 

To this Mrs. Graham made no reply, and Mrs. Mar- 
shall-More continued : 

“ You will be much better off in the village than in 
this great rambling house, and your children will find 
employment there. Maude must be eighteen, and 
ought to be a great help to you. I hear she is a senti- 
mental dreamer, living mostly in the clouds with people 
only known to herself, and perhaps she needed this 
change to rouse her to the realities of life.” 

“ Maude is the dearest girl in the world,” was the 
mother’s quick protest against what seemed like disap- 
probation of her daughter. 

“ Yes, of course,” was Mrs. Marshall-More’s response. 

Maude is a nice girl and a pretty girl and will be a 
great comfort to you when she wakes up to the fact 
that life is earnest and not all a dream, and in time you 
will be quite as happy in your new home as you could be 
here, where it must be very dreary in the winter, when 
the snow-drifts are piled up to the very window ledges, 
and the wind screams at you through every crevice.” 

“ Oh-h,” Mrs. Graham said, with a shudder, her 
thoughts going back to the day when the blinding snow 
had come down in great billows upon the newly-made 
grave in which she left her husband, and went back 
alone to the desolate home where he would never come 
again. 

It had been so terrible and sudden, his going from 


172 


THE SPRING FARM- 


her. Well in the morning, and dead at night ; killed 
by a locomotive and brought to her so mangled that she 
could never have recognized him as her husband. Peo- 
ple had called hjm over-generous and extravagant, and 
perhaps he was, but the money he spent so lavishly was 
always for others, and not for himself, and as the holder 
of the heavy mortgage on his farm had been content 
with the interest and never pressed his claim, he had 
made no effort to lessen it, even after he knew it passed 
into the hands of Mrs. Marshall-More, who had often 
expressed a wish to own the place known as the Spring 
Farm, and so-called from the numerous springs upon 
it. She would fill it with her city friends and set up 
quite an English establishment, she said ; and now it 
was hers, to all intents and purposes, for though the 
deed was in her brother’s name, it was understood that 
she was mistress of the place and could do what she 
liked with it. Of the real owner, Max Gordon, her half- 
brother, little was known, except the fact that he was 
very wealthy and had for years been engaged to a lady 
who, by a fall from a horse, had been crippled for life. 
It was also rumored that the lady had insisted upon re- 
leasing her lover from his engagement, but he had re- 
fused to be released, and still clung to the hope that she 
would eventually recover. Just where he was at pres- 
ent, nobody knew. He seldom visited his sister, al- 
though she was very proud of him and very fond of 
talking of her brother Max, who, she said, was so gen- 
erous and good, although a little queer. He had bidden 
off the Spring Farm because she asked him to do so, and 
a few thousand dollars more or less were nothing to 
him ; then, telling her to do what she liked with it, he 
had gone his way, while poor Lucy Graham’s heart was 


AT THE FARM HOUSE. 


173 


breaking at the thought of leaving the home which her 
husband had made so beautiful for her. An old- 
fashioned place, it is true, but one of those old-fashioned 
places to which our memory clings fondly, and our 
thoughts go back with an intense longing years after 
the flowers we have watered are dead, and the shrubs 
we have planted are trees pointing to the sky. A great 
square house, with a wing on either side, a wide hall 
through the center and a fireplace in every room. A 
well-kept lawn in front, dotted with shade trees and 
flowering shrubs, and on one side of it a running brook, 
fed by a spring on the hillside to the west ; borders and 
beds and mounds of flowers ; — tulips and roses and 
pansies and pinks and peonies and lilies and geraniums 
and verbenas, each blossoming in its turn and making 
the garden and grounds a picture of beauty all the 
summer long. No wonder that Lucy Graham loved it 
vnd shrank from leaving it, and shrank, too, from Mrs. 
Marshall-More’s attempts at consolation, saying only 
when that lady arose to go, “ It was kind in you to come 
and I thank you for it ; but just now my heart aches 
too hard to be comforted. Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, I shall call when you get settled in town, 
and if I can be of any service to you I will gladly do 
so,” Mrs. Marshall-More said, as she left the room and 
went out to her carriage, where she stood for a moment 
looking up and down the road, and saying to herself, 
“ Where can Archie be ?” 


174 


THE SPRING FARM. 


CHAPTER II. 

WHERE ARCHIE WAS. 

A long lane wound away to the westward across a 
strip of land called the mowing lot, through a bit of 
woods and on to a grassy hillside, where, under the 
shade of a butternut tree, a pair of fat, sleek oxen were 
standing with a look of content in their large, bright 
eyes as if well pleased with this unwonted freedom 
from the plough and the cart. Against the side of one 
of them a young girl was leaning, with her arm thrown 
across its neck and her hand caressing the long, white 
horn of the dumb creature which seemed to enjoy it. The 
girl was Maude Graham, and she made a very pretty 
picture as she stood there with her short, brown hair 
curling in soft rings about her forehead ; her dark blue 
eyes, her bright, glowing face, and a mouth which 
looked as if made for kisses and sweetness rather than 
the angry words she was hurling at the young man, or 
boy, for he was only twenty, who stood before her. 

‘‘Archie More,” she was saying, “ I don’t think it very 
nice in you to talk to me in that patronizing kind of 
way, as if you were so much my superior in everything, 
and trying to convince me that it is nothing for us to 
give up the dear old place where every stone and stump 
means somebody to me, for I know them all and have 
talked with them all, and called them by name, just as 
I know all the maiden ferns and water lilies and where 
the earliest arbutus blossoms in the spring. Oh, Archie, 
how can I leave Spring Farm and never come back 


WHERE ARCHIE WAS. 


175 


again ! I think I hate you all for taking it from us, and 
especially your uncle Max.” 

Here she broke down entirely, and laying her face 
on the shining coat of the ox began to cry as if her heart 
would break, while Archie looked at her in real distress 
wondering what he should say. He was a city-bred 
young man, with a handsome, boyish face, and in a way 
very fond of Maude, whom he had known ever since he 
was thirteen and she eleven, and he first came to Mer- 
rivale to spend the summer. They had played and 
fished together in the brook, and rowed together on the 
pond and quarreled and made up, and latterly they had 
flirted a little, too, although Archie was careful that the 
flirting should not go too far, for he felt that there 
was a vast difference between Archie More, son of Mrs. 
Marshall-More, and Maude Graham, daughter of a 
country farmer. And still he thought her the sweetest, 
prettiest girl he had ever seen, a jolly lot he called her, 
and he writhed under her bitter words, and when she 
cried he tried to comfort her and explain matters as 
best he could. Rut Maude was not to be appeased. 
She had felt all the time that the place need not have 
been sold, that it was a hasty thing, and though she did 
not blame Archie, she was very sore against Mrs. Mar- 
shall-More and her brother, and her only answer to all 
Archie could say, was : 

“ You needn’t talk. I hate you all, and your uncle 
Max the most, and if I ever see him I’ll tell him so, and 
if I don’t you may tell him for me.” 

Archie could keep silent and hear his mother blamed 
and himself, but he roused in defense of his uncle Max. 

“ Hate my uncle Max,” he exclaimed. “ Why, he is 
the best man that ever lived, and the kindest, H§ 


176 


THE SPRING FARM. 


knew nothing of you, or how you’d feel, when he bought 
the place ; if he had he wouldn't have done it ; and if 
he could see you now, crying on that ox’s neck, he would 
give it back to you. That would be just like him.” 

“ As if I’d take it,” Maud said, scornfully, as she lifted 
up her head and dashed the tears from her eyes with a 
rapid movement of both hands. “ No, Archie More, I 
shall never take Spring Farm as a gift from any one, 
much less from your uncle Max ; but I shall buy it of 
him some day if he keeps it long enough.” 

“ You ?” Archie asked, and Maude replied, “ Yes, I, 
why not? I know I am poor now, but I shall not 
alway be so. People call me crazy, a dreamer, a crank, 
and all that, because they cannot see what I see ; the 
people who are with me always, my friends ; and I 
know their names and how they look and where they 
live ; Mrs. Kimbrick, with her fifty daughters, all Eliza 
Anns, and Mrs. Webster, with her fifty daughters, all 
Ann Elizas, and Angeline Mason, who comes and talks 
to me in the twilight, wearing a yellow dress ; they are 
real to me as you are, and do you think I am crazy and 
a crank because of that ?” 

Archie said he didn’t, but he looked a little suspici- 
ously at the girl standing thereto erect, her eyes shin- 
ing with a strange light as she talked to him of things 
he could not understand. He had heard of this Mrs. 
Kimbrick and Mrs. Webster before, with their fifty 
daughters each, and had thought Maude queer, to say 
the least. He was sure of it now as she went on : 

“ Is the earth crazy because there is in it a little 
acorn which you can’t see, but which is still there, 
maturing and taking root for the grand old oak, whose 
branches will one day give shelter to many a tired 


WHERE ARCHIE WAS. 


177 


head ? Of course not ; neither am I, and some time 
these brain children, or brain seeds, call them what you 
like, will take shape and grow, and the world will hear 
of them, and of me ; and you and your mother will be 
proud to say you knew me once, when the people praise 
the book I am going to write.” 

“ A book !” and Archie laughed incredulously, it 
seemed so absurd that little Maude Graham should ever 
become an author of whom the world would hear. 

“Yes,” she answered him decidedly. “A book! 
Why not ? it is in me ; it has been there always, and I 
can no more help writing it than you can help doing, — 
well, nothing, as you always have. Yes, I shall write a 
book, and you will read it, Archie More, and thousands 
more, too ; and I shall put Spring Farm in it, and you, 
and your uncle Max. I think I shall make him the 
villain.” 

She was very hard upon poor Max, whose only 
offense was that he had bidden off Spring Farm to 
please his sister, but Archie was ready to defend him 
again. 

“ If you knew uncle Max,” he said, “you would make 
him your hero instead of your villain, for a better man 
never lived. He is kindness itself and the soul of honor. 
Why, when he was very young he was engaged to a 
girl who fell from a horse and broke her leg, or her 
neck, or her back, I’ve forgotten which. Anyhow, she 
cannot walk and has to be wheeled in a chair, but Max 
sticks to her like a burr, because he thinks he ought. I 
am sure I hope he will never marry her.” 

“ Why not ?” Maude asked, and he replied : 

** Because, you see, Max has a heap of money, and if 


178 


THE SPRING FARM. 


he never marries and I outlive him, some of it will come 
to me. Money is a good thing, I tell you.” 

“I didn’t suppose you as mean as that, Archie More ! 
and I hope Mr. Max will marry that broken-backed 
woman, and that she will live a thousand years ! Yes, 
I do !” 

The last three words were emphasized with so vig- 
orous blows on the back of the ox, that he started away 
suddenly, and Maude would have fallen if Archie had 
not caught her in his arms. 

“ Now, Maude,” he said, as he held her for a moment 
closely to him, “ don’t let's quarrel any more. I’m 
going away to-morrow to the Adirondack^, then in the 
fall to college, and may not see you again for a long 
time ; but I sha’n’t forget you. I like you the best of 
any girl in the world ; I do, upon my honor.” 

“ No, you don’t. I know exactly what you think of 
me, and always have, but it does not matter now,” 
Maude answered vehemently. “ You are going your 
way, and I am going mine, and the two ways will never 
meet.” 

And so, quarreling and making up, but making up 
rather more than they quarreled, the two went slowly 
along the gravelly lane until they reached the house 
where Mrs. Marshall-More was standing with a very 
severe look upon her face, as she said to her son : 

“ Do you know how long you have kept me waiting ?” 

Then to Maude : 

“ Been crying ? I am sorry you take it so hard. Be- 
lieve me, you will be better off in the village. Neither 
your mother nor you could run the farm, and you will 
find some employment there, I hear that Mrs. Nipe is 
wanting an apprentice and that she will give small 


WHERE AECIIIE WAS. 


179 


wages at first, which is not usual with dressmakers. 
You’d better apply at once.” 

“Thank you,” Maude answered quickly. “ I do not 
think I shall learn dressmaking,” and Maude looked at 
the lady as proudly as a queen might look upon her 
subject. “ Mrs. More, do you think your brother would 
promise to keep Spring Farm until I can buy it back ?” 
she continued. 

The idea that Maude Graham could ever buy Spring 
Farm was so preposterous that Mrs. Marshall- More 
laughed immoderately, as she replied, “ Perhaps so. I 
will ask him ; or you can do it yourself. I don’t know 
where he is now. I seldom do know, but anything ad- 
dressed to his club, No. , Street, Boston, will 

reach him in time. And now we must go. Good-bye.” 

She offered the tips of her fingers to the girl who just 
touched them, and then giving her hand to Archie said, 
“Good-bye, Archie, I am sorry we. quarreled so, and T 
did not mean half I said to you. I hope you will forget 
it. Good-bye ; I may never see you again.” 

If Archie had dared he would have kissed the face 
which had never looked so sweet to him as now ; but 
his mother’s eyes were upon him and so he only said 
“ Good-bye,” and took his seat in the carriage with a 
feeling that something which had been very dear had 
dropped out of his life. 


ISO 


THE SPRING FARM- 


CHAPTER III. 

GOING WEST. 

It was a very plain but pretty little cottage of which 
Mrs. Graham took possession with her children, Maude 
and John, who was two years younger than his sister. 
As most of the furniture had been sold it did not take 
them long to settle, and then the question arose as to 
how they were to live. A thousand dollars was all they 
had in the world, and these Mrs. Graham placed in the 
savings bank against a time of greater need, hoping 
that, as her friends assured her, something would turn 
up. “ If there was anything I could do, I would do it 
so willingly,” Maude was constantly saying to herself, 
while busy with the household duties which now fell to 
her lot and to which she was unaccustomed. During 
her father’s life two strong German girls had been em- 
ployed in the house and Maude had been as tenderly 
and delicately reared as are the daughters of million- 
aires. But now everything was changed, and those 
who had known her only as an idle dreamer and de- 
vourer of books, were astonished at the energy and cap- 
ability which she developed. But these did not under- 
stand the girl or know that all the stronger part of her 
nature had been called into being by the exigencies of 
the case. Maude’s love for her mother was deep and 
unselfish, and for her sake she tried to make the most 
and the best of everything. Stifling with a smile born 
of a sob all her longings for the past, she turned her 
thoughts steadily to the one purpose of her life, — buy^ 


GOING WEST. 


181 


in g Spring Farm back ! But how ? The book she was 
going to write did not seem quite so certain now. Her 
brain children had turned traitors and flown away from 
the sweeping, dusting, dishwashing and bedmaking 
which fell to her lot and which she did with a song on 
her lips lest her mother should detect the heartache 
which was always with her, even when her face was the 
brightest and her song the sweetest. She had written 
to Archie’s uncle without a suspicion that she did not 
know his real name. As he was a brother of Mrs. 
More, whose maiden name was Marshall, his must be 
Marshall too, she reasoned, forgetting to have heard 
that Mrs. More was only a half-sister and that there had 
been two fathers. Of course, he was Max Marshall, 
and she addressed him as follows : 


“ Merrivale, July — , 18 — . 

“ Mr. Max Marshall : 

“ Dear Sir, — I am Maude Graham, and you bought 
my old home, Spring Farm, and it nearly broke my 
own and mamma’s heart to have it sold. I don’t blame 
you much now for buying it, but I did once, and I said 
some hard things about you to Archie More, your 
nephew, which he may repeat to you. But I was 
angry then at him and everybody, and I am sorry that 
I said them. I am only eighteen and very poor, but 1 
shall be rich some day, — I am sure of it, — and able to 
buy Spring Farm, and I want you to keep it for me and 
not sell it to any one else. It may be years, but the 
day will come when I shall have the money of my own. 
Will you keep the place till then ? I think I shall be 
happier and have more courage to work if you write 
and say you will. 

“Yours truly, “ Maude Graham.” 

After this letter was sent and before she had reason 


182 


TfiE SPRING FARM. 


to expect an answer, Maude began to look for it, but 
none came, and the summer stretched on into August 
and the house at Spring Farm was shut up, for Mrs. 
Marshall-More was in Europe, and Maude’s great 
anxiety was to find something to do for her own and 
her mother’s support. Miss Nipe, the dressmaker, 
would give her a dollar a week while she was learning 
the trade, and this, with the three dollars per week 
which her brother John was earning in a grocery store, 
would be better than nothing, and she was seriously 
considering the matter, when a letter from her mother’s 
brother, who lived “out West,” as that portion of New 
York between the Cayuga Bridge and Buffalo was then 
called, changed the whole aspect of her affairs and 
forged the first link in the chain of her destiny. He 
could not take his sister and her children into his own 
large family, he wrote, but he had a plan to propose 
which, he thought, would prove advantageous to 
Maude, if her mother approved of it and would spare 
her from home. About six miles from his place was a 
school, which his daughter had taught for two years, 
but as she was about to be married, the position was 
open to Maude at four dollars a week and her board, 
provided she would take it. 

“ Maude is rather young, I know,” Mr. Ailing wrote in- 
conclusion, “ but no younger than Annie was when she 
began to teach, so her age need not stand in the way, if 
she chooses to come. The country will seem new and 
strange to her ; there are still log-houses in the Bush 
district ; indeed, the school-house is built of logs and 
the people ride in lumber wagons and are not like 
Bostonians or New Yorkers, but they are very kind, 


GOING WEST. 


183 


and Maude will get accustomed to them in time. My 
advice is that she accept” 

At first Mrs Graham refused to let her young daugh- 
ter go so far from home, but Maude was. persistent and 
eager. Log-houses and lumber wagons had no terrors 
for her. Indeed, they were rather attractions than 
otherwise, and fired her imagination, which began at 
once to people those houses of the olden time with the 
Kimbricks and the Websters, who had forsaken her so 
long. Four dollars a week seemed a fortune to her, 
and she would save it all, she said, and send it to her 
mother, who unwillingly consented at last and fortu- 
nately found a gentleman in town who was going to 
Chicago and would take charge of Maude as far as 
Canandaigua, where she was to leave the train and 
finish her journey by stage. But on the evening of the 
day before the one when Maude was to start, the gentle- 
man received word that his son was very ill in Port- 
land and required his immediate presence. 

“ I can go alone,” Maude said courageously, though 
with a little sinking of the heart. “ No one will 
harm me. Crossing the river at Albany is the worst, 
but I can do as the rest do, and after that I do not leave 
the car again until we reach Canandaigua.” 

“Don’t feel so badly, mamma,” she continued, wind- 
ing her arms around her mother’s neck and kissing 
away her tears. “ I am not afraid, and don’t you know 
how often you have said that God cared for the father- 
less, and I am that, and I shall ask Him all the time I 
am in the car to take care of me, and He will answer. 
He will hear. I’m not a child. I am eighteen in the 
Bible and a great deal older than that since father died. 
Don’t cry, darling mamma, and make it harder for 


184 THE SPRING FARM. 

me. I must go to-morrow, for school begins next 
Monday.” 

So, for her daughter’s sake, Mrs. Graham tried to be 
calm, and Maude’s little hair trunk was packed with the 
garments, in each of which was folded a mother’s 
prayer for the safety of her child ; and the morning 
came, and the ticket was bought, and the conductor, 
with whom Mrs. Graham had a slight acquintance, 
promised to see to the little girl as far as Albany, where 
he would put her in charge of the man who took his 
place. Then the good-byes were said and the train 
moved on past the village on the hillside, past the dear 
old Spring Farm which she looked at through blinding 
tears as long as a tree-top was in sight, past the grave- 
yard where her father was lying, past the meadows and 
woods and hills she loved so well, and on towards the 
new country and the new life of which she knew so 
little. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ON THE ROAD. 

Those were the days when the Boston train west- 
ward-bound moved at a snail’s pace compared with 
what it does now, and twenty-four hours instead of 
twelve were required for the trip from Merrivale to 
Canandaigua, so that the afternoon was drawing to a 
close when the cars stopped in Greenbush and the pas- 
sengers alighted and rushed for the boat which was to 
take them across the river. This, and re-checking her 


ON THE ROAD. 


185 


trur. k, was what Maude dreaded the most, and her face 
was very white and scared and her heart beating vio- 
lently as she followed the crowd, wondering if she 
should ever find her trunk among all that pile of bag- 
gage they were handling so roughly, and if it would be 
smashed to pieces when she did, and if she should get 
into the right car, or be carried somewhere else. She 
had lost sight of the conductor. Her head was begin- 
ning to ache, and there was a lump in her throat 
every time she thought of her mother and John, who 
would soon be taking their simple evening meal and 
talking of her. 

“ I wonder if I can bear it,” she said to herself, as she 
sat in the cabin the very image of despair, clasping her 
hand-bag tightly and looking anxiously at the people 
around her as if in search of some friendly face, which 
she could trust. 

She had heard so much before leaving home of 
wolves in sheep’s or rather men’s clothing, who infest 
railway trains, ready to pounce upon any unsuspecting 
girl who chanced to fall in their way, and had been so 
much afraid that some of the wolves might be on her 
train, lying in wait for her, that she had resolutely kept 
her head turned to the window all the time with a 
prayer in her heart that God would let no one speak to 
and frighten her. And thus far no one had spoken to 
her, except the conductor, but God must have deserted 
her now, for just as they were reaching the opposite 
shore, a gentleman, who had been watching her ever 
since she crouched down in the shadowy corner, and 
who had seen her wipe the tears away more than once, 
came up to her and said, “ Are you alone, and can I do 
anything for you ?” 


186 


the Spring farm. 


“ Yes, — no ; oh, I don’t know,” Maude gasped as she 
clutched her bag, in which was her purse, more tightly, 
and looked up at the face above her. 

It was such a pleasant face, and the voice was so kind 
and reassuring, that she forgot the wolves and might 
have given him her bag, purse, check and all, if the con- 
ductor had not just then appeared and taken her in 
charge. Lifting his hat politely the stranger walked 
away, while Maude went to identify her trunk. 

“Will you take a sleeper ?” the conductor asked. 

And she replied : “ Oh, no. I can’t afford that.” 

So he found her a whole seat in the common car, and 
telling her he would speak of her to the new conductor, 
bade her good-bye, and she was left alone. 

Very nervously*she watched her fellow passengers as 
they came hurrying in, — men, mostly, it seemed to her, 
— rough-looking men, too, for there had been a horse- 
race that day at a point on the Harlem road, and they 
were returning from it. Occasionally some one of them 
stopped and looked at the girl in black, who sat so 
straight and still, with her hand-bag held down upon 
the vacant seat beside her as if to keep it intact. But 
no one offered to take it, and Maude breathed more 
freely as the crowded train moved slowly from the 
depot. After a little the new conductor came and spoke 
to her and looked at her ticket and went out, and then 
she was really alone. New England, with its rocks and 
hills and mountains, was behind her. Mother, and 
John, and home were far away, and the lump in her 
throat grew larger, and there crept over her such a 
sense of dreariness and home-sickness, that she would 
have cried outright if she dared to. There were only 
six women in the car besides herself, All the rest were 


ON THE ROAD. 


187 


wolves ; she felt sure of that, they talked and laughed so 
loud, and spit so much tobacco-juice. They were so 
different from the stranger on the boat, .she thought, 
wondering who he was and where he had gone. How 
pleasantly he had spoken to her, and how she wished 
• She got no further, for a voice said to her : 

4 ‘ Can I sit by you ? Every other seat is taken.” 

“ Yes, oh, yes. I am so glad,” Maude exclaimed in- 
voluntarily in her delight at recognizing the stranger, 
and springing to her feet she offered him the seat next 
to the window. 

“ Oh, no,” he said, with a smile which would have 
won the confidence of any girl. “ Keep that yourself. 
You will be more comfortable there. Are you going 
to ride all night ?” 

“ Yes, I am going to Canandaigua,” she replied. 

“ To Canandaigua !” he repeated, looking at her a 
little curiously ; but he asked no more questions then, 
and busied himself with adjusting his bag and his large 
traveling shawl, which last he put on the back of the 
seat-, more behind Maude than himself. 

Then he took out a magazine, while Maude watched 
him furtively, thinking him the finest looking man she 
had ever seen, except her father, of whom, in his man- 
ner, he reminded her a little. Not nearly so old, cer- 
tainly, as her father, and not young like Archie either, 
for there were a few threads of grey in his mustache 
and in his brown hair which had a trick of curling 
slightly at the ends under his soft felt hat. Who was 
he ? she wondered. The initials on his satchel were 
“ M. G.,” but that told her nothing. How she hoped he 
was going as far as she was, she felt so safe with him, 


188 


TH K SPRING PARM. 


and at last, as the darkness increased and he shut up 
his book, she ventured to ask : 

“ Are you going far ?” 

“Yes,” he replied, with a twinkle of humor in his 
blue eyes, “and if none of these men get out, I am 
afraid I shall have to claim your forbearance all night, 
but I will make myself as small as possible. Look,” 
and with a laugh he drew himself close to the arm of 
the seat, leaving quite a space between them ; but he 
did not tell her that he had engaged a berth in the 
sleeper, which he had abandoned when he found her 
there alone, with that set of roughs, whose character he 
knew. 

“ Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of 
these ye have done it unto me,” would surely be said to 
him some day, for he was always giving the cup of 
water, even to those who did not know they were thirst- 
ing until after they had drunk of what he offered them. 
Once he brought Maude some water in a little glass 
tumbler, which he took from his satchel, and once he 
offered her an apple which she declined lest she should 
seem too forward ; then, as the hours crept on and her 
eyelids began to droop, he folded his shawl carefully 
and made her let him put it behind her head, suggest- 
ing that she remove her hat, as she would rest more 
comfortably without it. 

“Now sleep quietly,” he said, and as if there were 
something mesmeric in his voice, Mai;de went to sleep 
at once and dreamed she was at home with her mother 
beside her, occasionally fixing the pillow under her 
head and covering her with something which added to 
her comfort. 

It was the stranger’s light overcoat which, as the Sep- 


ON THE ROAD. 


189 


tember night grew cold and chill, he put over the girl, 
whose upturned face he had studied as intently as she 
had studied his. About seven o’clock the conductor 
came in, lantern in hand, and as its rays fell upon the 
stranger, he said, “Hello, Gordon, you here? I thought 
you were in the sleeper. On guard, I see, as usual. 
Who is the lamb this time ?” 

“ I don’t know ; do you ?” the man called Gordon re- 
plied. 

“ No,” the conductor said, turning his light full upon 
Maude ; then, “ Why, it’s a little girl the Boston con- 
ductor put in my care ; but she’s safer with you. Comes 
from the mountains somewhere, I believe. Guess she is 
going to seek her fortune. She ought to find it, with 
that face. Isn’t she pretty ?” and he glanced admiringly 
at the sweet young face now turned to one side, with 
one hand under the flushed cheek and the short rings 
of damp hair curling round her forehead. 

“Yes, very,” Gordon replied, moving uneasily and 
finally holding a newspaper between Maude and the 
conductor’s lantern, for it did not seem right to him 
that any eyes except those of a near friend should take 
this advantage of a sleeping girl. 

The conductor passed on, and then Gordon fell asleep 
until they reached a way station, where the sudden 
stopping of a train roused him to consciousness, and a 
moment after he was confronted by a young man, who, 
at sight of him, stopped short and exclaimed : 

“ Max Gordon, as I live ! I’ve hunted creation over 
for you and given you up. Where have you been and 
why weren’t you at Long Branch, as you said you’d b§ 
when you wrote me to join you therQ ?” 


190 


THE SPRING FARM. 


“ Got tired of it, you were so long coming, so I went 
to the Adirondacks with Archie.” 

“ Did you bring me any letters ?” Max replied, and 
his friend continued, “ Yes, a cart load. Six, any way,” 
and he began to take them from his side pocket. “ One, 
two, three, four, five ; there’s another somewhere. Oh, 
here ’tis,” he said, taking out the sixth, which looked 
rather soiled and worn. “ I suppose it’s for you,” he 
continued, “ although it’s directed to Mr. Max Marshall, 
Esq., and is in a school-girl’s handwriting. It came 
long ago, and we chaps puzzled over it a good while ; 
then, as no one appeared to claim it, and it was mailed 
at Merrivale, where your sister spends her summers, I 
ventured to bring it with the rest. If you were not 
such a saint I’d say you had been imposing a false 
name upon some innocent country girl, and, by George, 
I believe she’s here now with your ulster over her ! 
Running off with her, eh ? What will Miss Raynor 
say ?” he went on, as his eyes fell upon Maude, who 
just then stirred in her sleep and murmured softly. 
“ Our Father, who art in Heaven.” 

She was at home in her little white-curtained bed- 
room, kneeling with her mother and saying her nightly 
prayer, and, involuntarily, both the young men bowed 
their heads as if receiving a benediction. 

“ I think, Dick, that your vile insinuation is an- 
swered,” Max said, and Dick rejoined, “ Yes, I beg your 
pardon. Under your protection, I s’pose. Well, she’s 
safe ; but I must be finding that berth of mine. Will 
see you in the morning. Good-night.” 

He left the car, while Max Gordon tried to read his 
letters as best he could by the dim light near him. 
One was from his sister, one from Archie, three on 


ON THE ROAD. 


191 


business, while the last puzzled him a little, and he held 
it awhile as if uncertain as to his right to open it. 

“ It must be for me,” he said at last, and breaking the 
seal he read Maude’s letter to him, unconscious that 
Maude was sleeping there beside him. 

Indeed, he had never heard of Maude Graham before, 
and had scarcely given a thought to the former owners 
of Spring Farm. His sister had a mortgage upon it ; 
the man was dead ; the place must be sold, and Mrs. 
More asked him to buy it ; that was all he knew when 
he bid it off. 

“ Poor little girl,” he said to himself. “ If I had known 
about you, I don’t believe I’d have bought the place. 
There was no necessity to foreclose, I am sure ; but it 
was just like Angie ; and what must this Maude think of 
me not to have answered her letter. I am so sorry 
and his sorrow manifested itself in an increased atten- 
tion to the girl, over whom he adjusted his ulster more 
carefully, for the air in the car was growing very damp 
and chilly. 

It was broad daylight when Maude awoke, starting 
up with a smile on her face and reminding Max of some 
lovely child when first aroused from sleep. 

“Why, I have slept all night,” she exclaimed, as she 
tossed back her wavy hair ; “ and you have given me 
your shawl and ulster, too,” she added, with a blush 
which made her face, as Max thought, the prettiest he 
had ever seen. 

Who was she, he wondered, and once he thought to 
ask her the question direct ; then he tried by a little 
finessing to find out who she was and where she came 
from, but Maude’s mother had so strongly impressed it 
Upon her not to be at all communicative to strangers, 


192 


THE SPRING FARM. 


that she was wholly non-committal even while suspect- 
ing his design, and when at last Canandaigua was 
reached he knew no more of her history than when he 
first saw her, white and trembling on the boat. She 
was going to take the Genesee stage, she said, and ex- 
pected her uncle to meet her at Oak Corners in Rich- 
land. 

“ Why, that is funny,” he said. “ If it were not that 
a carriage is to meet me, I should still be your fellow- 
traveler, for my route lies that way.” 

And then he did ask her uncle’s name. She surety 
might tell him so much, Maude thought, and replied : 

“ Captain James Ailing, my mother’s brother.” 

Her name was not Ailing, then, and reflecting that 
now he knew who her uncle was he could probably 
trace her, Max saw her into the stage, and taking her 
ungloved hand in his held it perhaps a trifle longer than 
he would have done if it had not been so very soft 
and white and pretty, and rested so confidingly in his, 
while she thanked him for his kindness. Then the 
stage drove away, while he stood watching it, and won- 
dering why the morning was not quite so bright as it 
had been an hour ago, and why he had not asked her 
point-blank who she was, or had been so stupid as not 
to give her his card. 

“ Max Gordon, you certainty are getting into your 
dotage,” he said to himself. “ A man of your age to be 
so interested in a little unknown girl ! What would 
Grace say ? Poor Grace. I wonder if I shall find her 
improved, and why she has buried herself in this part 
of the country.” 

As he entered the hotel a thought of Maude Graham’s 


ON THE ROAD. 


193 


letter came to his mind, and calling for pen and paper he 
dashed off the following : 

“ Canandaigua, September — , 18 — . 

“Miss Maude Graham, — Your letter did not reach 
me until last night, when it was brought me by a friend. 
I have not been in Boston since the first of last July, 
and the reason it was not forwarded to me is that you 
addressed it wrong, and they were in doubt as to its 
owner. My name is Gordon, not Marshall, as you sup- 
posed, and I am very sorry for your sake and your 
mother’s that I ever bought Spring Farm. Had I 
known what I do now I should not have done so. But 
it is too late, and I can only promise to keep it as you 
wish until you can buy it back. You are a brave little 
girl and I will sell it to you cheap. I .should very much 
like to know you, and when I am again in Merrivale I 
shall call upon you and your mother, if she will let me. 

“ With kind regards to her I am 
“ Yours truly, 

“ Max Gordon.” 

The letter finished, he folded and directed it to Miss 
Maude Graham, Merrivale, Mass., while she for whom 
it was intended was huddled up in one corner of the 
crowded stage and going on as fast as four fleet horses 
could take her towards Oak Corners and the friends 
awaiting her there. Thus strangely do two lives some- 
times meet and cross each other and then drift widely 
apart ; but not forever, in this instance, let us hope, 


194 


THE SPRING FARM. 


CHAPTER V. 

MISS RAYNOR. 

About a mile from Laurel Hill, a little village in 
Richland, was an eminence, or plateau, from the top of 
which one could see for miles the rich, well-cultivated 
farms in which the town abounded, the wooded hills and 
the deep gorges all slanting down to a common centre, 
the pretty little lake, lying as in the bottom of a basin, 
with its clear waters sparkling in the sunshine. And 
here, just on the top of the plateau, where the view was 
the finest, an eccentric old bachelor, Paul Raynor, had 
a few years before our story opens, built himself a home 
after his own peculiar ideas of architecture, but which, 
when finished and furnished, was a most delightful 
place, especially in the summer when the flowers and 
shrubs, of which there was a great profusion, were in 
blossom, and the wide lawn in front of the house was 
like a piece of velvet. Here for two years Paul Raynor 
had lived quite en prince, and then, sickening with what 
he knew to be a fatal disease, he had sent for his invalid 
sister Grace, who came and stayed with him to the last, 
finding after he was dead that all his property had been 
left , to her, with a request that she would make the 
Cedars, as the place was called, her home for a portion 
of the time at least. And so, though city bred and city 
born, Grace had staid on for nearly a year, leading a 
lonely life, for she knew but few of her neighbors, while 
her crippled condition prevented her from mingling at 
all in the society she was so well fitted to adorn, As 


MISS RAYNOR. 


105 


the reader will have guessed, Grace Raynor was the girl, 
or rather woman, for she was over thirty now, to w hom 
Max Gordon had devoted the years of his early man- 
hood, in the vain hope that some time she would be 
cured and become his wife. A few days before the one 
appointed for her bridal she had been thrown from her 
horse and had injured her spine so badly that for 
months she suffered such agony that her beautiful hair 
turned white ; then the pain ceased suddenly, but left 
her no power to move her lower limbs, and she had 
never walked since and never would. But through all 
the long years Max had clung to her with a devotion 
born first of his intense love for her and later of his 
sense of honor which would make him loyal to her even 
to the grave. Knowing how domestic he was in his 
tastes and how happy he would be with wife and chil- 
dren, Grace had insisted that he should leave her and 
seek some other love. But his answer was always the 
same. “ No, Grace, I am bound to you just as strongly 
as if the clergyman had made us one, and will marry 
you any day you will say the word. Your lameness is 
nothing so long as your soul is left untouched, and your 
face, too,” he would sometimes add, kissing fondly the 
lovely face which, with each year, seemed to grow love- 
lier, and from which the snowy hair did not in the least 
detract. 

But Grace knew better than to inflict herself upon 
him, and held fast to her resolve, even while her whole 
being went out to him with an intense longing for his 
constant love and companionship. Especially was this 
the case at the Cedars, where she found herself very 
lonely, notwithstanding the beauty of the place and its 

situation* 


196 


THE SPRING FARM. 


“ If he asks me again, shall I refuse ?” she said to her- 
self on the September morning when Maude Graham 
was alighting from the dusty stage at Oak Corners, two 
miles away, and the carriage sent for Max was only an 
hour behind. 

How pretty she was in the dainty white dress, with a 
shawl of scarlet wool wrapped around her, as she sat in 
her wheel chair on the broad piazza, which commanded 
a view of the lake and the green hills beyond. Not 
fresh and bright and glowing as Maude, who was like 
an opening rose with the early dew upon it, but more 
like a pale water lily just beginning to droop, though 
very sweet and lovely still. There was a faint tinge of 
color in her cheek as she leaned her head against the 
cushions of her chair and wondered if she should find 
Max the same ardent lover as ever, ready to take her to 
his arms at any cost, or had he, during the past year, 
seen some other face fairer and younger than her own. 

“ I shall know in a moment if he is changed ever so 
little,” she thought, and although she did not mean to 
be selfish, and would at any moment have given him up 
and made no sign, there was a throb of pain in her 
heart as she tried to think what life would be without 
Max to love her. “ I should die,” she whispered, “and 
please God, I shall die before many years and leave my 
boy free.” 

He was her boy still, just as young and handsome as 
he had been thirteen years ago, when he lifted her so 
tenderly from the ground and she felt his tears upon 
her forehead as she writhed in her fearful pain. And 
now when at last he came and put his arms around her 
and took her face between his hands and looked fondly 
into it as he questioned her of her health, she felt that 


MISS RAYNOR. 


19 ? 


he was unchanged, and thanked her Father for it. He 
was delighted with everything, and sat by her until 
after lunch, which was served on the piazza, and asked 
her of her life there and the people in the neighborhood, 
and finally if she knew of a Capt. Ailing. 

“ Capt. Ailing,” she replied ; “ why, yes. He lives 
on a farm about two miles from here and we buy 
our honey from him. A very respectable man, I think, 
although I have no acquaintance with the family. Why 
do you ask ?” 

“ Oh, nothing ; only there was a girl on the train with 
me who told me she was his niece,” Max answered in- 
differently, with a vigorous puff at his cigar, which 
Grace always insisted he should smoke in her presence. 
“ She was very pretty and very young. I should like to 
see her again,” he added, more to himself than to Grace, 
who, without knowing why, felt suddenly as if a cloud 
had crept across her sky. 

Jealousy had no part in Grace’s nature, nor was she 
jealous of this young, pretty girl whom Max would like 
to see again, and to prove that she was not she asked 
many questions about her and said she would try and 
find out who she was, and that she presumed she had 
come to attend the wadding of Capt. Ailing’s daughter, 
* who was soon to be married. This seemed very prob- 
able, and no more was said of Maude until the afternoon 
of the day following, which was Sunday. Then, after 
Max returned from church and they were seated at 
dinner he said abruptly, “ I saw her again.” 

“ Saw whom ?” Grace asked, and he replied, “ My 
little girl of the train. She was at church with her 
uncle’s family. A rather ordinary lot I thought them, 


198 


THE SPRINGS- FARM. 


but she looked as sweet as a June pink. You know 
they are my favorite flowers.” 

“ Yes,” Grace answered slowly, while again a breath 
of cold air seemed to blow over her and make her draw 
her shawl more closely around her. 

But Max did not suspect it, and pared a peach for her 
and helped her to grapes, and after dinner wheeled her 
for an hour on the broad plateau, stooping over her 
once and caressing her white hair, which he told her 
was very becoming, and saying no more of the girl seen 
in church that morning. The Allings had been late 
and the rector was reading the first lesson when they 
came in, father and mother and two healthy, buxom 
girls, followed by Maude, who, in her black dress 
looked, taller and slimmer than he had thought her in 
the car, and prettier, too, with the brilliant color on her 
cheeks and the sparkle in the eyes which met his with 
such glad surprise in them that he felt something stir in 
his heart different from anything he had felt since he 
and Grace were young. The Allings occupied a pew in 
front of him and on the side, so that he could look at 
and study Maude’s face, which he did far more than he 
listened to the sermon. And she knew he was looking 
at her, too, and always blushed when she met his earn- 
est gaze. As they were leaving the church he managed 
to get near her, and said, “ I hope you are quite well 
after your long journey, Miss .” 

“ Graham,” she answered, involuntarily, but so low 
that he only caught the first syllable and thought that 
she said Grey. 

She was Miss Grey, then, and with this bit of infor- 
mation he was obliged to be content. Twice during the 
week he rode past the Ailing house, hoping to see the 


'THE SCHOOL MISTRESS. 


190 


eyes which had flashed so brightly upon him on the 
porch of the church, and never dreaming of the hot tears 
of homesickness they were weeping in the log school 
house of the Bush district, where poor Maude was so 
desolate and lonely. If he had, he might, perhaps, 
have gone there and tried to comfort her, so greatly was 
he interested in her, and so much was she in his mind. 

He stayed at the Cedars several days, and then find- 
ing it a little tiresome said good-bye to Grace and went 
his way again, leaving her with a vague consciousness 
that something had come between them ; a shadow 
no larger than a man’s hand, it is true, but still a 
shadow, and as she watched him going down the walk 
she whispered sadly, “ Max is slipping from me,” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE SCHOOL MISTRESS. 

The setting sun of a raw January afternoon was shin- 
ing into the dingy school-room where Maude sat by the 
iron-rusted box stove, with her feet on the hearth, read- 
ing a note which had been brought to her just before 
the close of school by a man who had been to the post- 
office in the village at the foot of the lake. It was 
nearly four months since she first crossed the threshold 
of the log school-house, taking in at a glance the whole 
dreariness of her surroundings, and feeling for the mo- 
ment that she could not endure it. But she was some- 
what accustomed to it now, and not half so much afraid 


the spring Farm. 


2o0 

of the tall girls and boys, her scholars, as she had heeil 
at first, while the latter were wholly devoted to her and 
not a little proud of their “young school ma’am,” as 
they called her. Everybody was kind to her, and she 
had not found “ boarding round ” so very dreadful after 
all, for the fatted calf was always killed for her, and 
the best dishes brought out, while it was seldom that 
she was called upon to share her sleeping room with 
more than one member of the family. And still there 
was ever present with her a longing for her mother and 
for Johnnie and a life more congenial to her tastes. 
Dreaming was out of the question now, and the book 
which was to make her famous and buy back the old 
home seemed very far in the future. Just how 
large a portion of her thoughts was given to Max Gor- 
don it was difficult to say. She had felt a thrill of joy 
when she saw him in church, and a little proud, too, it 
may be, of his notice of her. Very minutely her 
cousins had questioned her with regard to her acquaint- 
ance with him, deploring her stupidity in not having 
ascertained who he was. A relative, most likely, of 
Miss Raynor, in whose pew he sat, they concluded, and 
they told their cousin of the lady at the Cedars, Grace 
Raynor, who could not walk a step, but was wheeled in 
a chair, sometimes by a maid and sometimes by a man. 
The lady par excellence of the neighborhood she seemed 
to be, and Maude found herself greatly interested in her 
and in everything pertaining to her. Twice she had 
been through the grounds, which were open to the pub- 
lic, and had seen Grace both times in the distance, once 
sitting in her chair upon the piazza, and once being 
wheeled in the woods by her man-servant, Tom. But 
beyond this she had not advanced, and nothing could be 


The sctioOL MisT&feSS. 


201 


farther from her thoughts than the idea that she would 
ever be anything to the lady of the Cedars. Max Gor- 
don’s letter had been forwarded to her from Merrivale, 
but had created no suspicion in her mind that he and 
her friend of the train were one. She had thought it a 
- little strange that he should have been in Canandaigua 
the very day that she arrived there, and wished she 
might have seen him, but the truth never dawned upon 
her until some time in December, when her mother 
wrote to her that he had called to see them, expressing 
much regret at Maude’s absence, and when told where 
she was and when she went, exclaiming with energy, 
as he sprang to his feet, “ Why, madam, your daughter 
was with me in the train, — a little blue-eyed, brown- 
haired girl in black, who said she was Captain Ailing’s 
niece.” 

“ He seemed greatly excited,” Mrs. Graham wrote, 
“ and regretted that he did not know who you were. 
He got an idea somehow that your name was Grey , and 
said he received your letter with you asleep beside him. 
He is a splendid looking man, with the pleasantest eyes 
and the kindest voice I ever heard or saw.” 

“ Ye-es,” Maude said slowly, as she recalled the voice 
which had spoken so kindly to her, and the eyes which 
had looked so pleasantly into her own. “ And that was 
Max Gordon ! He was going to the Cedars, and Miss 
Raynor is the girl for whom he has lived single all 
these years. Oh-h !” 

She was conscious of a vague regret that her stranger 
friend was the betrothed husband of Grace Raynor, 
who, at that very time, was thinking of her and fight- 
ing down a feeling as near to jealousy as it was possible 
for her to harbor. In the same mail with Maude’s let- 


202 


TltE SPRING FARM. 


ter from her mother there had come to the Cedars one 
from Max, who said that he had discovered who was 
his compag?ion da voyage. 

“ She is teaching somewhere in your town," he wrote 
“and I judge is not very happy there. Can’t you do 
something for her, Grace ? It has occurred to me that 
to have a girl like her about you would do you a great 
deal of good. . We are both getting on in years, and 
need something young to keep us from growing old, and 
you might make her your companion. She is very 
pretty, with a soft, cultivated voice, and must be a good 
reader. Think of it, and if you decide to do it, inquire 
for her at Captain Ailing’s. Her name is Maude Gra- 
ham. Yours lovingly, 

“ Max." 

This was Max’s letter, which Grace read as she sat in 
her cosy sitting-room with every luxury around her 
which money could buy, from the hot house roses on the 
stand beside her to the costly rug on which her chair 
was standing in the ruddy glow of the cheerful grate 
fire. And as she read it she felt again the cold breath 
which had swept over her when Max was telling her of 
the young girl who had interested him so much. And 
in a way Grace, too, had interested herself in Maude, 
and through her maid had ascertained who she was, and 
that she was teaching in the southern part of the town. 
And there her interest had ceased. But it revived 
again on the receipt of Max’s letter and she said, “ I 
must see this girl first and know what she is like. A 
woman can judge a woman better than a man, but I 
wish Max had not said what he did about our growing 
old. Am I greatly changed, I wonder ?" 


*THE SCHOOL MISTRESS. 


20 3 

She couid manage her chair herself in the house, and 
wheeling it before a long mirror, she leaned eagerly 
forward and examined the face reflected there. A pale, 
sweet face, framed in masses of snow white hair, which 
rather added to its youthful appearance than detracted 
from it, although she did not think so. She had been 
so proud of her golden hair, and the bitterest tears she 
had ever shed had been for the change in it. 

“ It’s my hair,” she whispered sadly, — “ hair which 
belongs to a woman of sixty, rather than thirty-three, 
and there is a tired look about my eyes and mouth. 

Yes, I am growing old, oh, Max ,” and the slender 

fingers were pressed over the beautiful blue eyes 
where the tears came so fast. “Yes, I’ll see the girl,” 
she said, “ and if I like her face, I’ll take her to please 
him.” 

She knew there was to be an illumination on Christ- 
mas Eve in the church on Laurel Hill, and that Maude 
Graham was to sing a Christmas anthem alone. 

I’ll go, and hear, and see,” she decided, and when the 
evening came Grace was there in the Raynor pew listen- 
ing while Maude Graham sang, her bright face glowing 
with excitement and her full, rich voice rising higher 
and higher, clearer and clearer, until it filled the church 
as it had never been filled before, and thrilled every 
nerve of the woman watching her so intently. 

“ Yes, she is pretty and good, too ; I cannot be de- 
ceived in that face,” she said to herself, and when, 
after the services were over and Maude came up the 
aisle past the pew where she was sitting, she put out 
her hand and said, “ Come here, my dear, and let me 
thank you for the pleasure you have given me. You 
have a wonderful voice and some time you must come 


TttE SE>RltfG- FARM, 


and sing to me. I am Miss Raynor, and you are Maude 
Graham.” 

This was their introduction to each other, and that 
night Maud dreamed of the lovely face which had 
smiled upon her, and the voice, which had spoken so 
kindly to her. 

Two weeks afterwards Grace’s note was brought to 
her and she read it with her feet upon the stove hearth 
and the low January sun shining in upon her. 

Miss Raynor wanted her for a companion and friend,, 
to read and sing to and soothe her in the hours of lan- 
guor and depression, which were many. 

“ I am lonely,” she wrote, “ and, as you know, wholly 
incapacitated from mingling with the world, and I want 
some one with me different from my maid. Will you 
come to me, Miss Graham ? I will try to make you 
happy. If money is any object I will give you twice as 
much as j t ou are now receiving, whatever that may be. 
Think of it and let me know your decision soon. 

“ Yours very truly, 

“ Grace Raynor. 

“ Oh,” Maude cried. “ Eight dollars a week and a 
home at the Cedars, instead of four dollars a week and 
boarding around. Of course I will go, though not till 
my present engagement expires. This will not be until 
some time in March,” and she began to wonder if she 
could endure it so long, and, now that the pressure was 
lifting, how she had ever borne it at all. 

But whatever may be the nature of our surroundings, 
time passes quickly, and leaves behind a sense of nearly 
as much pleasure as pain, and when at last the closing 
day of school came, it was with genuine feelings of re- 


AT THE CEDARS. 


205 


gret that Maude said good-bye to the pupils she had 
learned to love and the patrons who had been so kind 
to her. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AT THE CEDARS. 

It had cost Grace a struggle before she decided to 
take Maude as her companion, and she had been driven 
past the little log house among the hills and through 
the Bush district, that she might judge for herself of 
the girl’s surroundings. The day was raw and bluster- 
ing, and great banks of snow were piled against the 
fences and lay heaped up in the road unbroken save by 
a foot path made by the children’s feet 

“ And it is through this she walks in the morning, 
and then sits all day in that dingy room. I don’t be- 
lieve I should like it,” Grace thought, and that night 
.she wrote to Maude, offering her a situation with her- 
self. 

And now, on a lovely morning in April, when the 
crocuses and snowdrops were just beginning to blos- 
som, she sat waiting for her, wondering if she had 
done well or ill for herself. She had seen Maude and 
talked with her, for the latter had called at the Cedars 
and spent an hour or more, and Grace had learned 
much from her of her former life and of Spring Farm, 
which she was going to buy back. Max’s name, how- 
ever, was not mentioned, although he was constantly 
in the minds pf both, and Grace was wondering if he 


20G 


THE SPRING FARM. 


would come oftener to the Cedars if Maude were there. 
She could not be jealous of the girl, and yet the idea 
had taken possession of her that she was bringing her 
to the Cedars for Max rather than for herself, and this 
detracted a little from her pleasure when she began to 
fit up the room her companion was to occupy. Such a 
pretty room it was, just over her own, with a bow win- 
dow looking across the valley where the lake lay sleep- 
ing, and on to the hills and the log school-house which, 
had it been higher, might have been seen above the 
woods which surrounded it. A room all pink and 
white, with roses and lilies everywhere, and a bright 
fire in the grate before which a willow chair was stand- 
ing and a Maltese kitten sleeping when Maude was ush- 
ered into it by Jane, Miss Raynor’s maid. 

“ Oh, it is so lovely,” Maude thought, as she looked 
about her, wondering if it were not a dream from which 
she should presently awake. 

But it was no dream, and as the days went on it came 
to be real to her, and she was conscious of a deep and 
growing affection for the woman who was always so 
kind to her and who treated her like an equal rather 
than a hired companion. Together they read and 
talked of. the books which Maude liked best, and 
gradually Grace learned of the dream life Maude had 
led before coming to Richland, and of the people who 
had deserted her among the hills, but who in this more 
congenial atmosphere came trooping back, legions of 
them, and crowding her brain until she had to tell of 
them, and of the two lives she was living, the ideal and 
the real. She was sitting on a stool at Grace’s feet, 
with her face flushed with excitement as she talked of 
the Kimbricks, and Websters, and Angelipe Mason, who 


AT THE CEDARS. 


207 


were all with her now as they had been at home, and 
all as real to her as Miss Raynor was herself. Laying 
her hand upon the girl’s brown curls, Grace said, half 
laughingly, “ And so you are going to write a book. 
Well, I believe all girls have some such aspiration. I 
had it once, but -it was swallowed up by a stronger, 
deeper feeling, which absorbed my whole being.” 

Here Grace’s voice trembled a little as she leaned 
back in her chair and seemed to be thinking. Then, 
rousing herself, • she asked suddenly, “ How old are 
you, Maude ?” 

“ Nineteen this month,” was Maude’s reply, and 
Grace went on : “Just my age when the great sorrow 
came. That was fourteen years ago next June. I am 
thirty-three, and Max is thirty-seven.” 

She said this last more to herself than to Maude, who 
started slightly, for this was the first time his name had 
been mentioned since she came to the Cedars. 

After a moment Grace continued : “ I have never 
spoken to you of Mr. Gordon, although I know you have 
met him. You were with him on the train from Albany 
to Canandaigua ; he told me of you.” 

“ He did !” Maude exclaimed, with a ring in her voice 
which made Grace’s heart beat a little faster, but she 
went calmly on : 

“ Yes ; he was greatly interested in you, although he 
did not then know who you were ; but he knows now. 
He is coming here soon. We have been engaged ever 
since I was seventeen and he was twenty-one ; fourteen 
years ago the 20th of June we were to have been 
married. Everything was ready ; my bridal dress and 
veil had been brought home, and I tried them on one 
mornipg to see how I looked in them. I was beautiful. 


208 


THE SPRING FARM. 


Max said, and I think he told the truth ; for a woman 
may certainly know whether the face she sees in the 
mirror be pretty or not, and the picture I saw was very 
fair, while he, who stood beside me, was splendid in his 
young manhood. How I loved him ; more, I fear, than 
I loved God, and for that I was punished, — oh, so dread- 
fully punished. We rode together that afternoon, Max 
and I, and I was wondering if there were ever a girl as 
happy as myself, and pitying the women I met because 
they had no Max beside them, when suddenly my horse 
reared, frightened by a dog, and I was thrown upon a 
sharp curb-stone. Of the months of agony which 
followed I cannot tell you, except that I prayed to die 
and so be rid of pain. The injury was in my spine, and 
I have never walked in all the fourteen years since. 
Max has been true to me, and would have married me 
had I allowed it. But I cannot burden him with a 
cripple, and sometimes I wish, or think I do, that he 
would find some one younger, fairer than I am, on whom 
to lavish his love. He would make a wife so happy. 
And yet it would be hard for me, I love him so much. 
Oh, Max ; I don’t believe he knows how dear he is to 
me.” 

She was crying softly now, and Maude was crying, 
too ; and as she smoothed the snow-white hair and 
kissed the brow on which lines were beginning to show, 
she said : 

“ He will never find a sweeter face than yours.” 

To her Max Gordon now was only the betrothed hus- 
band of her mistress, and still she found herself looking 
forward to his visit with a keen interest, wondering 
what he would say to her, and if his eyes would kindle 
at sight of her as they had done when she saw him in 


MAX AT THE CEDARS. 


209 


the church at Laurel Hill. He was to come on the 
20th, the anniversary of the day which was to have been 
his bridal day, and when the morning came, Grace said 
to Maude : 

“ I’d like to wear my wedding gown ; do you think it 
would be too much like Dickens’ Miss Havershaw ?” 

“Yes, yes,” Maude answered, quickly, feeling that 
faded satin and lace of fourteen years’ standing would 
be sadly out of place. “You are lovely in those light 
gowns you wear so much,” she said. 

So Grace wore the dress which Maude selected for 
her ; a soft, woolen fabric of a creamy tint, with a blue 
shawl, the color of her eyes, thrown around her, and a 
bunch of June pinks, Max’s favorite flowers, at her belt, 
Then, when she was ready, Maude wheeled her out to 
the piazza, where they waited for their visitor. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MAX AT THE CEDARS. 

The train was late that morning and lunch was nearly 
ready before they saw the open carriage turn into the 
grounds, with Max standing up in it and waving his hat 
to them. 

“ Oh, Maude,” Grace said, “ I would give all I am 
worth to go and meet him. Isn’t he handsome and 
grand, my Max !” she continued, as if she would assert 
her right to him and hold it against the world. 

But Maude did not hear her, for as Max alighted from 


210 


THE SPRING FARM. 


the carriage and came eagerly forward, she stole away, 
feeling that it was not for her to witness the meeting of 
the lovers. 

“ Dear Max, you are not changed, are you ?” Grace 
cried, extending her arms to him, with the effort to rise 
which she involuntarily made so often, and which was 
pitiful to see. 

“ Changed, darling ? How could I change in less 
than a year ?” Max answered, as he drew her face down 
to his bosom and stroked her hair. 

Grace was not thinking of a physical change. Indeed 
she did not know what she did mean, for she was not 
herself conscious how strong an idea had taken posses- 
sion of her that she was losing Max. But with him 
there beside her, her morbid fears vanished, and letting 
her head rest upon his arm, she said : 

“ I don’t know, Max, only things come back to me to- 
day and I am thinking of fourteen years ago and that I 
am fourteen years older than I was then, and crippled 
and helpless and faded, while you are young as ever. 
Oh, Max, stay by me till the last. It will not be for 
long. I am growing so tired and sad.” 

Grace hardly knew what she was saying, or why, as 
she said it, Maude Graham’s face, young and fair and 
fresh, seemed to come between herself and Max, any 
more than he could have told why he was so vaguely 
wondering what had become of the girl in black, whom 
he had seen in the distance quite as soon as he had seen 
the woman in the chair. During his journey Grace and 
Maude had .been pretty equally in his mind, and he was 
conscious of the feeling that the Cedars held an added 
attraction for him because the latter. was there ; and 
now, when he began to have a faint perception of 


MAX AT THE CEDARS. 


211 


Grace’s meaning-, though he did not associate it with 
Maude, he felt half guilty because he had for a moment 
thought any place where Grace was could be made 
pleasanter than she could make it. Taking her face 
between his hands he looked at it more closely, noticing 
with a pang that it had grown thinner and paler and 
that there were lines about the eyes and the mouth, 
while the blue veins stood out full and distinct upon the 
forehead. Was she slowly fading ? he asked himself, 
resolving that nothing should be lacking on his part to 
prove that she was just as dear to him as in the days 
when they were young and the future bright before 
them. He did not even speak of Maude until he saw 
her in the distance, .trying to train a refractory honey, 
suckle over a tall frame. Then he said : 

“ Is that Miss Graham, and do you like her as well as 
ever ?” 

“ Yes, better and better every day,” was Grace’s re- 
ply. “ It was a little awkward at first to have a stran- 
ger with me continually, but I am accustomed to her 
now, and couldn’t part with her. She is very dear to 
me,” she continued, while Max listened and watched 
the girl, moving about so gracefully, and once showing 
her arms to the elbows as her wide sleeves fell back in 
her efforts to reach the top of the frame. 

“ She oughtn’t to do that,” Grace said. “ She is not 
tall enough. Go and help her, Max,” and nothing loth, 
Max went along the terrace to where Maude was stand- 
ing, her face flushed with exercise as she gave him her 
hand and said, “Good-morning, Mr. Gordon. I am 
Maude Graham. Perhaps you remember me.” 

“ How could I forget you,” sprang to Max’s lips, but 
he said instead, “ Good-morning, Miss Graham. I have 


212 


THE SPRING FARM. 


come to help you. Miss Raynor thinks it is bad for 
your heart to reach so high.” 

Maude could have told him that her heart had not 
beaten one half as fast while reaching up as it was 
beating now, with him there beside her holding the vine 
while she tied it to its place, his hand touching hers and 
his arm once thrown out to keep her from falling as 
she stumbled backward. It took a long time to fix that 
honeysuckle, and Max had leisure to tell Maude of a 
call made upon her mother only a week before. 

“ Spring Farm is looking its loveliest, with the roses 
and lilies in bloom,” he said, “ and Angie, my sister, is 
enjoying it immensely. She has filled the house with 
her city friends and has made some changes, of which I 
think you would approve. Your mother does, but 
when she wanted to cut down that apple tree in the 
corner I would not let her do it. You remember it, 
don’t you ?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Gordon,” Maude exclaimed, “ don’t let 
her touch that tree. My play-house was under it, and 
there the people used to come to see me.” 

He did not know who the people were, for he had 
never heard of Maude’s brain children, — the Kimbricks 
and the Websters, — and could hardly have understood 
if he had ; but Maude’s voice was very pathetic and the 
eyes which looked at him were full of tears, moving him 
strangely and making him very earnest in his manner 
as he assured her that every tree and shrub should be 
kept intact for her. 

“You know you are going to buy it back,” he con- 
tinued laughingly, as they walked slowly toward the 
house where Grace was waiting to be taken in to lunch. 

“ Yes ? and I shall do it ? too. You will see ; it may be 


MAj£ AT TftE CEDAkS. 


213 


many years, but I trust you to keep it for me,” Maude 
said, and he replied, “ You may trust me with anything, 
and I shall not disappoint you.” 

The talk by the honeysuckle was one of many 
which took place while Max was at the Cedars, for 
Grace was too unselfish to keep him chained to her side, 
and insisted that he should enjoy what there was to en- 
joy in the way of rides and drives in the neighborhood, 
and as she could not often go with him she sent Maude 
in her stead, even though she knew the danger there 
was in it, for she was not insensible to Max’s admiration 
for the girl, or Maude’s interest in him. 

“ If Max is true to me to the last, and he will be, it is 
all I ask,” she thought, and gave no sign of the ache in 
her heart, when she saw him going from her with 
Maude and felt that it was in more senses than one. 
“ If he is happy, I am happy, too, she would say to her- 
self, as she sat alone hour after hour, while Max and 
Maude explored the country in every direction. 

Sometimes they drove together, but oftener rode, for 
Maude was a fine horsewoman and never looked better 
than when on horseback, in the becoming habit which 
Grace had given her and which fitted her admirably. 
Together they went through the pleasant Richland 
woods, where the grass was like a mossy carpet beneath 
their horses’ hoofs, and the singing of the birds and the 
brook was the only sound which broke the summer still- 
ness, then again they galloped over the hills and round 
the lake, and once through the Bush district, up to the 
little log house which Max expressed a wish to see. It 
was past the hour for school. Teacher and scholars 
had gone home, and tying their horses to the fence they 
went into the dingy room and sat down side by side 


214 


Ihe Spring EaEM. 


upon one of the wooden benches, and just where a i*ay 
of sunlight fell upon Maude’s face and hair, for she had 
removed her hat and was fanning herself with it. She 
was very beautiful, with that halo around her head, 
Max thought, as he sat watching and listening to her, 
as in answer to his question, “ How could you endure it 
here ?” she told him of her terrible homesickness dur- 
ing the first weeks of her life as a school-teacher. 

“ I longed so for mother and Johnnie,” she said, “ and 
was always thinking of them, and the dear old home, 
and — and sometimes — of you, too, before I received 
your letter.” 

“ Of me !” Max said, moving a little nearer to her, 
while she went on : 

“ Yes, I’ve wanted to tell you how angry I was be- 
cause you bought our home. I wrote you something 
about it, you remember, but I did not tell you half how 
bitter I felt. I know now you were not to blame, but I 
did not think so then, and said some harsh things of you 
to Archie ; perhaps he told you. I said he might. Did 
he ?” 

“ No,” Max answered, playing idly with the riding 
whip Maude held in her hand. “ No, Archie has only 
told me pleasant things of you. I think he is very fond 
of you,” and he looked straight into Maude’s face, wait- 
ing for her reply. 

It was surely nothing to him whether Archie were 
fond of Maude, or she were fond of Archie, and yet her 
answer was very reassuring and lifted from his heart a 
little shadow resting there. 

“ Yes,” Maude said, without the slightest change in 
voice or expression. “ Archie and I are good friends. 
I have known him and played with him, and quarreled 


MAX AT THE CEDARS. $l5 

With him ever since I was a child, so that he seems 
more like a brother than anything else.” 

“ Oh, ye-es,” Max resumed, with a feeling of relief, as 
he let his arm rest on the high desk behind her, so that 
if she moved ever so little it would touch her. 

There was in Max’s mind no thought of love-making; 
Indeed, he did not know that he was thinking of any- 
thing except the lovely picture the young girl made 
with the sunlight playing on her hair and the shy look 
in her eyes as, in a pretty, apologetic way she told him 
how she had disliked him and credited him with all the 
trouble which had come upon them since her father’s 
death. 

“ Why, I thought I hated you,” she said with energy. 

“ Hated me ! Oh, Maude, you don’t hate me now, I 
hope; — I could not bear that,” Max said, letting the whip 
fall and taking Maude’s hand in his, as he said again, 
“ You don’t hate me now ?” 

“ No, no ; oh, no. I — oh, Mr. Gordon,” Maude began, 
but stopped abruptly, startled by something in the eyes 
of the man, who had never called her Maude before, 
and whose voice had never sounded as it did now, mak- 
ing every nerve thrill with a sudden joy, all the sweeter, 
perhaps, because she knew it must not be. 

Wrenching her hand from his and springing to her 
feet she said, “ It is growing late, and Miss Raynor is 
waiting for us. Have you forgotten her ?” 

He had forgotten her for one delirious moment, but 
she came back to him with a throb of pain and self-re- 
proach that he had allowed himself to swerve in the 
slightest degree from his loyalty to her. 

“ I am not a man, but a traitor,” he said to himself, 


216 


the spring farm. 


as he helped Maude into her saddle and then vaulted 
into his own. 

The ride home was a comparatively silent one, for 
both knew that they had not been quite true to the 
woman who welcomed them back so sw'eetly and asked 
so many questions about their ride and what they had 
seen. Poor Grace ; she did not in the least understand 
why Maude lavished so much attention upon her that 
evening, or why Max lingered longer than usual at her 
side, or why his voice was so tender and loving, when 
he at last said good-night and went to his own room, 
and the self-castigation which he knew awaited him 
there. 

“1 was a villain,” he said, as he recalled that little 
episode in the school-house, when to have put his arm 
around Maude Graham and held her for a moment, 
would have been like heaven to him. “ I was false to 
Grace, although I did not mean it, and, God helping 
me, I will never be so again.” Then, as he remem- 
bered the expression of the eyes which had looked up 
so shyly at him, he said aloud, “ Could I win her, were 
I free ? But that is impossible. May God forgive me 
for the thought. Oh, why has Grace thrown her so 
much in my way? She surely is to blame for that, 

while I well, I am a fool, and a knave, and a 

sneak.” 

He called himself a great many hard names that 
night, and registered a vow that so long as Grace lived, 
and he said he hoped she would live forever, he would 
be true to her no matter how strong the temptation 
placed in his way. It was a fierce battle Max fought, but 
he came off conqueror, and the meeting between him- 
self and Maude next morning was as natural as if to 


Max at the ceHarS. 


‘217 

neither of them had ever come a moment when they had 
a glimpse of the happiness which, under other circum- 
stances, might perhaps have been theirs. Maude, too, 
had had her hours of remorse and contrition and dose 
questioning as to the cause of the strange joy which 
had thrilled every nerve when Max Gordon called her 
Maude and asked her if she hated him. 

“ Hate him ! Never !” she thought ; “ but I have 
been false to the truest, best woman that ever lived. 
She trusted her lover to me, and ” 

She did not quite know what she had done, but what- 
ever it was it should not be repeated. There were to 
be no more rides, or drives, or talks alone with Max. 
And when next day Grace suggested that she go with 
him to an adjoining town where a fair was to be held, 
she took refuge in a headache and insisted that Grace 
should go herself, while Max, too, encouraged it, and 
tried to believe that he was just as happy with her be- 
side him as he would have been with the young girl 
who brought a cushion for her mistress’ back and ad- 
justed her shawl about her shoulders and arranged her 
bonnet strings, and then, kissing her fondly, said, “I 
am so glad that you are going instead of myself.” 

This was for the benefit of Max, at whom she nodded 
a little defiantly, and who understood her meaning as 
well as if she had put it into words. Everything was 
over between them, and he accepted the situation, and 
during the remainder of his stay at the Cedars, devoted 
himself to Grace with an assiduity worthy of the most 
ardent lover. He even remained longer than he had 
intended doing, for Grace was loth to let him go, and 
the soft haze of early September was beginning to 
ghow on the Richland hills when he at last said good- 


218 


THE gPRtNG EARtf; 


bye, premising to come again at Christmas, if it were 
possible to do so. 


CHAPTER IX. 

GOOD-BYE, MAX ; GOOD-BYE. 

It was a cold, stormy afternoon in March. The 
thermometer marked six below zero, and the snow 
which had fallen the day before was tossed by the wind 
in great white clouds, which sifted through every crevice 
of the house at the Cedars, and beat against the window 
from which Maude Graham was looking anxiously out 
into the storm for the carriage which had been sent to 
meet the train in which Max Gordon was expected. He 
had not kept his promise to be with Grace at Christmas. 
An important law-suit had detained him, and as it would 
be necessary for him to go to London immediately after 
its close, he could not tell just when he would be at the 
Cedars again. 

All through the autumn Grace had been failing, while 
a cold, taken in November, had left her with a cough, 
which clung to her persistently. Still she kept up, 
looking forward to the holidays, when Max would be 
with her. But when she found he was not coming she 
lost all courage, and Maude was alarmed to see how 
rapidly she failed. Nearly all the day she lay upon the 
couch in her bedroom, while Maude read or sang to her 
or talked with her of the book which had actually been 
commenced, and in which Grace was almost as much 


&OOD-gtfE MAX ; good-b^E. 

interested as Maude herself. Grace was a careful and 
discriminating critic, and if Maude were ever a success 
she would owe much of it to the kind friend whose sym- 
pathy and advice were so invaluable. A portion of 
every day she wrote, and every evening read what she 
had written, to Grace, who smiled as she recognized 
Max Gordon in the hero and knew that Maude was 
weaving the tale mostly from her own experience. 
Even the Bush district and its people furnished material 
for the plot, and more than one boy and girl who had 
called Maude schoolma’am figured’ in its pages, while 
Grace was everywhere, permeating the whole with her 
sweetness and purity. 

“ I shall dedicate it to you,” Maude said to her one 
day, and Grace replied : 

“ That will be kind ; but I shall not be here to see it, 
for before your book is published I shall be lying under 
the flowers in Mt. Auburn. I want you to take me 
there, if Max is not here to do it.” 

“ Oh, Miss Raynor,” Maude cried, dropping her MS. 
and sinking upon her knees beside the couch where 
Grace was lying, “ you must not talk that way. You 
are not going to die. I can’t lose you, the dearest friend 
I ever had. What should I do without you, and what 
would Max Gordon do?” 

At the mention of Max’s name a faint smile played 
around Grace’s white lips, and lifting her thin hand she 
laid it caressingly upon the girl’s brown hair as she 
said : 

“ Max will be sorry for awhile, but after a time there 
will be a change, and I shall be only a memory. Tell 
him I was willing, and that although it was hard at first 
it was easy at the last.” 


226 


SPRING PaRM. 


What did she mean ? Maude asked herself, while he! 
thoughts went back to that summer afternoon in the log 
school-house on the hill, when Max Gordon’s eyes and 
voice had in them a tone and look born of more than 
mere friendship. Did Grace know ? Had she guessed 
the truth ? Maude wondered, as, conscience-stricken, 
she laid her burning cheek against the pale one upon the 
pillow. There was silence a moment, and when Grace 
spoke again she said : 

“ It is nearly time for Max to be starting for Europe, 
or I should send for him to come, I wish so much to see 
him once more before I die.” 

“ Do you think a hundred trips to Europe would keep 
him from you if he knew you wanted him ?” Maude 
asked, and Grace replied : 

“ Perhaps not. I don’t know. I only wish he were 
here.” 

This was the last of February, and after that Grace 
failed so fast, that with the hope that it might reach 
him before he sailed, Maude wrote to Max, telling him 
to come at once, if he would see Grace before she died. 
She knew about how long it would take her letter to 
reach him and how long for him to come, allowing for 
no delays, and on the morning of the first day when 
she could by any chance expect him, she sent the car- 
riage to the Canandaigua station, and then all through 
the hours of the long, dreary day, she sat by Grace’s 
bedside, watching with a sinking heart the pallor on 
her lips and brow, and the look she could not mistake 
deepening on her face. 

“What if she should die before he gets here, or what 
if he should not come at all ?” she thought, as the hours 
went by. 


GOOD-BYE MAX; GOOD-BYE. 


221 


She was more afraid of the latter, and when she saw 
the carriage coming up the avenue she strained her 
eyes through the blinding snow to see if he were in it. 
When he came before he had stood up and waved 
his hat to them, but there was no token now to tell if 
he were there, and she waited breathlessly until the 
carriage stopped before the side entrance, knowing then 
for sure that he had come. 

“Thank God !” she cried, as she went out to meet 
him, bursting into tears as she said to him, “ I am so 
glad, and so will Miss Raynor be. She does not know 
that I wrote you. I didn’t tell her, for fear you wouldn’t 
come.” 

She had given him her hand and he was holding it 
fast as she led him into the hall. She did not ask him 
when or where he received her letter. She only helped 
him off with his coat, and made him sit down by the 
fire while she told him how rapidly Grace had failed 
and how little hope there was that she would ever 
recover. 

“ You will help her, if anything can. I am going to 
prepare her now,” she said, and, going out, she left him 
there alone. 

He had been very sorry himself that he could not 
keep his promise at Christmas, and had tried to find a 
few days in which to visit the Cedars between the close 
of the suit and his departure for England. But he 
could not, and his passage was taken and his luggage 
on the ship, which was to sail early in the morning, 
when, about six o’clock in the evening, Maude’s letter 
was brought to him, changing his plans at once. Grace 
was dying, — the woman he had loved so long, and 
although thousands of dollars depended upon his keep- 


222 


.THE SPRING FARM. 


ing his appointment in London, he must lose it all, and 
go to her. Sending for his luggage, and writing a few 
letters of explanation, the next morning found him on 
his way to the Cedars, which he reached on the day 
when Maude expected him. 

She had left Grace asleep when she went to meet 
Max, but on re-entering her room found her awake and 
leaning on her elbow in the attitude of intense listening. 

“ Oh, Maude,” she said, “ was it a dream, or did I 
hear Max speaking to you in the hall ? Tell me is he 
here ?” 

“Yes, he is here. I sent for him and he came,” 
Maude replied, while Grace fell back upon her pillow, 
whispering faintly : 

“ Bring him at once.” 

“ Come,” Maude said to Max, who followed her to 
the sick room, where she left him alone with Grace. 

He stayed by her all that night and the day following, 
in order to give Maude the rest she needed, but when 
the second night came they kept the watch together, he 
on one side of the bed, and she upon the other, with 
their eyes fixed upon the white, pinched face where the 
shadow of death was settling. For several hours Grace 
slept quietly. Then, just as the gray daylight was be- 
ginning to show itself in the corners of the room, she 
awoke and asked : 

“ Where is Max ?” 

“ Here, darling,” was his response, as he bent over 
her and kissed her lips. 

“ I think it has grown cold and dark, for I can’t see 
you,” she said, groping for his hand, which she held 
tightly between her own as she went on : “I have been 
dreaming, Max,— such a pleasant dream, for I was 


GOOD-BYE MAX ; GOOD-BYE. 


223 


5 T oung again, — young as Maude, and wore my bridal 
dress, just as I did that day when you said I was so 
pretty. Do you. remember it ? That was years ago, — 
oh ! so many, — and I am getting old ; we both are grow- 
ing old. You said so in your letter. But Maude is 
young, and in my dream she wore the bridal dress at the 
last, and I saw my own grave, with you beside it and 
Maude, and both so sorry because I was dead. But it 
is better so, and I am glad to die and be at rest. If I 
could be what I once was, oh ! how I should cling to 
life ! For I love you so much ! Oh, Max, do you know, 
can you guess how I have loved you all these years, and 
what it has cost me to give you up ?” 

Max’s only answer was the hot tears he dropped upon 
her face as she went on : “ You will not forget me, 
that I know ; but some time, — yes, some time, — and 
when it comes, remember I was willing. I told Maude 
so. Where is she ?” 

“ Here !” and Maude knelt, sobbing, by the dying 
woman, who went on : “ She has been everything to 

me, Max, and I love her, next to you. God bless you 
both ! And if, in the Heaven I am going to, I can 
watch over you, I will do it, and be often, often with 
you, when you think I’m far away. Who was it said 
that ? I read it long ago. But things are going from me, 
and Heaven is very near, and the Saviour is with me, — 
closer, nearer than 5 T ou are, Max ; and the other world 
is just in sight, where I soon shall be, free from pain, 
with my poor, crippled feet all strong and well, like 
Maude’s. Dear Maude ! tell her how I loved her ; tell 
her ” 

Here her voice grew indistinct, and for a few mo- 
ments she seemed to be sleeping ; then, suddenly, open- 


224 


THE SPRING FARM. 


ing her eyes wide, she exclaimed, as an expression of joy 
broke over her face : “ It is here, — the glory which 

shineth as the noonday. In another moment I shall be 
walking the golden streets. Good-bye, Max ; good- 
bye.” 

Grace was dead, and Maude made her ready for the 
coffin, her tears falling like rain upon the shrivelled feet 
and on the waxen hands which she folded over the pulse- 
less bosom, placing in them the flowers her mistress had 
loved best in life. She was to be buried in Mt. Auburn, 
and Maude went with the remains to Boston, as Grace 
had requested her to do, caring nothing because Mrs. 
Marshall-More hinted broadly at the impropriety of the 
act, wondering how she could have done it. 

“ She did it at Grace’s request, and to please me,” 
Max said ; and that silenced the lady, who was afraid of 
her brother, and a little afraid of Maude, who did 
not seem quite the girl she had last seen in Merrivale. 

“ What will you do now ? Go back to your teach- 
ing ?” she asked, after the funeral was over. 

“ I shall go home to mother,” Maude replied, and 
that afternoon she took the train for Merrivale, accom- 
panied by Max, who was going on to New York, and 
thence to keep his appointment in London. 

Few were the words spoken between them during the 
journey, and those mostly of the dead woman lying 
under the snow at Mt. Auburn ; but when Merrivale 
was reached, Max took the girl’s hands and pressed 
them hard as he called her a second time by her name. 

“ God bless you, Maude, for all you were to Grace. 
When I can I will write to you. Good-bye.” 

Only for a moment the train stopped at the station, 
and then it moved swiftly on, leaving Maude standing 


AT LAST. 


225 


upon the platform with her mother and John, while 
Max resumed his seat, and pulling his hat over his eyes, 
never spoke again until New York was reached. A 
week later and a ship of the Cunard line was plowing 
the ocean to the eastward, and Max Gordon was among 
the passengers, silent and abstracted, with a bitter 
sense of loneliness and pain in his heart as he thought 
of the living and the dead he was leaving behind, — 
Grace, who was to have been his bride, dead in all her 
sweetness and beauty, and Maude, who was nothing to 
him but a delicious memory, alive in all her freshness 
and youthful bloom. He could hardly tell of which he 
thought the more, Grace or Maude. Both seemed ever 
present with him, and it was many a day before he 
could rid himself of the fancy that two faces were close 
against his own, one cold and dead, as he had seen it 
last, with the snowy hair about the brow and a smile of 
perfect peace upon the lips which had never said aught 
but worcls of love to him, — the other glowing with life 
and girlish beauty, as it had looked at him in the gath- 
ering darkness when he stood upon the car step and 
waved it his good-bye. 


CHAPTER X. 

AT LAST. 

Five years had passed since Grace was laid in her 
grave in Mt. Auburn, and Max was still abroad, lead- 
ing that kind of Bohemian life which many Americans 
lead in Europe, when there is nothing to call them 


226 


THE SPRING FARM. 


home. And to himself Max often said there was noth- 
ing to call him home, but as often as he said it a throb 
of pain belied his words, for he knew that across the 
sea was a face and voice he was longing to see and 
hear again, a face which now visited him in his dreams 
quite as often as that of his dead love, and which he 
always saw as it had looked at him that summer after- 
noon in the log house among the Richland hills, with 
the sunlight falling upon the rings of hair, and lending 
a warmer tint to the glowing cheeks. Delicious as was 
the memory of that afternoon, it had been the means of 
keeping Max abroad during all these years, for, in the 
morbid state of mind into which he had fallen after 
Grace’s death, he felt that he must do penance for hav- 
ing allowed himself for a moment to forget her, who 
had believed in him so fully. 

“ Grace trusted me, and I was false to her and will 
punish myself for it, even if by the means I lose all that 
now makes life seem desirable,” he thought. 

And so he staid on and on, year after year, knowing 
always just where Maude was and what she was doing, 
for Archie kept him informed. Occasionally he wrote 
to her himself, — pleasant, chatty letters, which had in 
them a great deal of Grace, — his lost darling, he called 
her, — and a little of the places he was visiting. Occa- 
sionally, too, Maude wrote to him, her letters full of 
Grace, with a little of her life in Merrivale, for she was 
with her mother now, and had been since Miss Raynor’s 
death. A codicil to Grace’s will, bequeathing her a few 
thousand dollars, made it unnecessary for her to earn 
her own livelihood. Indeed, she might have bought 
Spring Farm, if she had liked ; but this she would not 
do. The money given for that must be earned by her- 


AT LAST. 


227 


self, paid by the book she was writing, and which, after 
it was finished and published, and after a few savage 
criticisms by some dyspeptic critics, who saw no good 
in it, began to be read, then to be talked about, then to 
sell, — until finally it became the rage and was found in 
every book store, and railway car, and on almost every 
parlor table in New England, while the young authoress 
was spoken of as ** a star which at one flight had soared 
to the zenith of literary fame,” and this from the very 
pens which at first had denounced “ Sunny Bank ” as a 
milk-and-watery effort, not worth the paper on which it 
was written. 

All Mrs. Marshall-More’s guests at Spring Farm read 
it, and Mrs. Marshall-More and Archie read it, too, and 
both went down to congratulate the author upon her 
success, the latter saying to her, when they were alone : 

“ I say, Maude, your prophecy came true. You told 
me you’d write a book which every one would read, and 
which would make mother proud to say she knew you, 
and, by Jove, you have done it. You ought to hear her 
talk to some of the Boston people about Miss Graham, 
the authoress. You’d suppose you’d been her dearest 
friend. I wonder what Uncle Max will say? I told 
you you would make him your hero, and you have. I 
recognized him at once ; but the heroine is more like 
Grace than you. I am going to send it to him.” 

And the next steamer which sailed from New York 
for Europe carried with it Maude’s book, directed to 
Max Gordon, who read it at one sitting in a sunny nook 
of the Colosseum, where he spent a great part of his 
time. Grace was in it, and he was in it, too, he was 
sure, and, reading between the lines what a stranger 
could not read, he felt when he had finished it that in 


228 


THE SPRING FARM. 


the passionate love of the heroine for the hero he heard 
Maude calling to him to come back to the happiness 
there was still for him. 

“ And I will go,” he said. “ Five years of penance 
have atoned for five minutes of forgetfulness, and Grace 
would bid me go, if she could, for she foresaw what 
would be, and told me she was willing.” 

With Max to will was to do, and among the list of 
passengers who sailed from Liverpool, March 20th, 
18 — , was the name of Maxwell Gordon, Boston, Mass. 

* * * * * * * 

It was the 2d of April, and a lovely morning, with 
skies as blue and air as soft and warm as in the later 
days of May. Spring Farm, for the season, was looking 
its loveliest, for Mrs. Marshall-More had lavished fabu- 
lous sums of money upon it, until she had very nearly 
transformedit into what she meant it should be, an Eng- 
lish Park. She knew that Maude had once expressed 
her intention to buy it back some day, but this she was 
sure she could never do, and if she could Max would 
never sell it, and if he would she would never let him. 
So, with all these never s to reassure her, she went on 
year after 3 T ear improving and beautifying the place until 
it was worth far more than when it came into her hands, 
and she was contemplating still greater improvements 
during the coming summer, when Max suddenly walked 
in upon her, and announced his intention of going to 
Merrivale the next day. 

“ But where will you stay ? Both houses are closed 
only the one at Spring Farm has in it an old couple — 
Mr. and Mrs. Martin — who look after it in the winter,” 
she said, and Max replied : 


at last. 


229 


“ I will stay at Spring Farm with the Martins. I 
want to see the place.” And the next day found him 
there, occupying the room which, by a little skillful 
questioning of Mrs. Martin, he learned had been Maude’s 
when her father owned the farm. 

Miss Graham was home, she said, and at once launched 
out into praises of the young authoress of whom Merri- 
vale was so proud. 

“ And to think,” she said, “ that she was born here in 
this very house ! It seems so queer.” 

“ And is the house more honored now than when she 
was simple Maude Graham ?” Max asked, and the old 
lady replied : 

“ To be sure it is. Any house can have a baby born 
in it, but not every one an authoress !” and with that 
she bustled off to see about supper for her guest. 

Max was up early the next morning, wondering how 
soon it would be proper for him to call upon Maude. 
He had no thought that she would come to him, and 
was somewhat surprised when just after breakfast her 
card was brought up by Mrs. Martin, who said she was 
in the parlor. Maude had heard of his arrival from Mr. 
Martin, who had stopped at the cottage the previous 
night on his way to the village. 

“ Mr. Gordon in town ! I supposed he was in 
Europe !” she exclaimed, feeling herself grow hot and 
cold and faint as she thought of Max Gordon being so 
near to her. 

That very afternoon she had received the first 
check from her publisher, and been delighted with the 
amount, so much more than she had expected. There 
was enough to buy Spring Farm, if Max did not ask too 
much, and she resolved to write to him at once and ask 


230 


THE SPRiNG FARM. 


his price. But that was not necessary now, for he was 
here and she should see him face to face, and the next 
morning she started for Spring Farm immediately after 
their breakfast, which was never served very early. 

“ Will he find me greatly changed, I wonder,” she 
thought, as she sat waiting for him, her heart beating so 
rapidly that she could scarcely speak when at last he 
came and stood before her, the same man she had 
parted from five years before save that he seemed a lit- 
tle older, with a look of weariness in his eyes. 

But that lifted the moment they rested upon her. 

“ Oh, Maude,” was all he could say, as he looked into 
the face he had seen so often in his dreams, though 
never as beautiful as it was now. “ Maude,” he began 
at last, “ I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you 
again, or how glad I am for your success. I read the 
book in Rome. Archie sent it to me, and I have come 
to congratulate you.” 

He was talking so fast and pressing her hands so hard 
that he almost took her breath away. But she released 
herself from him, and, determining to have the business 
off her mind as soon as possible, began abruptly : 

“ I was surprised to hear of your arrival, and glad, 
too, as it saves me the trouble of writing you. I can 
buy Spring Farm now. You know you promised to 
keep it for me. What is your price ?” 

“ How much can you give ?” Max asked ; and without 
stopping to consider the strangeness of the question, 
Maude told him frankly the size of the check she had 
received, and asked if it were enough. 

“ No, Maude,” Max said, and over the face looking so 
anxiously at him there fell a cloud of disappointment as 
Maude replied : 


AT LAST. 


231 


“ Is it much more you ask ?” 

“Yes, a great deal more,” and Max seated himself 
beside her upon the sofa, for she was now sitting down ; 
“ but I think you can arrange it. Don’t look so sorry ; 
It is you I want, not your money. Will you give me 
yourself in return for Spring Farm ?’* 

He had her hands again, but she drew them from 
him, and covering her face with them, began to cry, 
while he went on : 

“ Five years is a long time to wait for one we love, 
and I have waited that length of time, with thoughts of 
you in my heart, almost as much as thoughts of Grace, 
whom I loved dearly while she lived. But she is dead, 
and could she speak she would bid you grant me the 
happiness I have been denied so many years. I think 
she knew it would come some day. I am sure she did x 
and she told me she was willing. I did not mean to ask 
you quite so soon, but the sight of you, and the 
belief that you care for me as I care for you, has made 
me forget all the proprieties, and I cannot recall my 
words, so I ask you again to be my wife, to give me 
yourself as the price of Spring Farm, which shall be 
your home as long as you choose to make it so. Will 
you, Maude ? I have come thousands of miles for your 
answer, which must not be no.” 

What else he said, or what she said, it is not necessary 
for the reader to know ; only this, that when the two 
'walked back to the cottage Maude said to her mother, 
“ I am to marry Mr. Gordon in June, and you will spend 
the summer in our old home, and John will go to college 
in the fall.” 

It w r as very bad taste in Max to select the 20th of 
June for his wedding day, and she should suppose he 


232 


THE SPRING EARM. 


would remember twenty years ago, when Grace Raynor 
was to have been his bride, Mrs. Marshall-More said to 
Archie, when commenting upon her brother’s approach- 
ing marriage, which did not altogether please her. She 
would far rather that he should remain single, for 
Archie’s sake and her own. And still it was some com- 
fort that she was to have for her sister one so famous as 
Maude was getting to be. So she went up to Merrivale 
early in June and opened her own house, and patronized 
Maude and Mrs. Graham, and made many suggestions 
with regard to the wedding, which she would have had 
very fine and elaborate had they allowed it. But 
Maude’s preference was for a quiet affair, with only a 
few of her more intimate friends present. And she had 
her way. Archie was there, of course, and made him- 
self master of ceremonies. He had received the news of 
Maude’s engagement with a keener pang of regret than 
he had thought it possible for him to feel, and suddenly 
woke up to a consciousness that he had always had a 
greater liking for Maude than he supposed. But it was 
too late now, and casting his regrets to the winds he 
made the best of it, and was apparently the gayest of 
all the guests who, on the morning of the 20th of June, 
assembled in Mrs. Graham’s parlor, where Max and 
Maude were made one. 

Aunt Maude, Archie called her, as he kissed her and 
asked if she remembered the time she cried on the neck 
of the brown ox, and declared her hatred of Max and all 
his relations. 

“ But I did not know him then ; did I, Max?” Maude 
said ; and the bright face she lifted to her husband told 
that she was far from hating him now. 

There was a short trip to the West and a flying visit 


to Richland and the Cedars, so fraught with memories 
of the past and of Grace, whose grave on the wedding 
day had been one mass of flowers which Max had 
ordered put there. “ Her wedding garment,” he said 
to Maude, to whom he told what he had done. “ She 
seems very near to me now, and I am sure she is glad.” 

****** 

It was a lovely July day, when Max and Maude re- 
turned from their bridal journey and took possession of 
the old home at Spring Farm, where Mrs. Graham met 
them with a very different expression upon her face 
from what it wore when we first saw her there years 
ago. The place _was hers again, to enjoy as long as she 
lived ; and if it had been beautiful when she left it, she 
found it far more so now, for Mrs. Marshall-More’s im- 
provements, for which Max’s money had paid, were 
mostly in good taste, and never had the grounds looked 
better than when Max and Maude drove into them on 
this July afternoon. Although a little past their prime, 
there were roses everywhere, and the grassy walks, 
which Mrs. More had substituted in place of gravel, 
were freshly cut, and smooth and soft as velvet, while 
the old-fashioned flowers Maude loved so well, were fill- 
ing the air with their perfume, and the birds in the 
maple tree seemed carolling a welcome to the bride 
so full were they of song. 

And here we shall leave her, happy in her old home 
and in her husband’s love, which is more to her than all 
the world beside. Whether she will ever write another 
book we do not know, probably she will, for where the 
brain seeds have taken root it is hard to dislodge them, 


234 


the spring Farm, 


and Maude often hears around her the voices of new 
ideal friends, to whom she may some time be compelled 
to give shape and name, as she did to the friends of her 
childhood. 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


CHAPTER I. — Doris’s Story. 

MY AUNTS. 

I had come from my mother’s burial to the rector’s 
house, where I was to stay until it should be known 
what disposition would be made of me by my father’s 
aunts, the Misses Morton, who lived at Morton Park, 
near Versailles, Kentucky. Of these aunts I knew 
little, except that there were three of them now, but 
there had been four, and my great-grandfather, an ec- 
centric old man, had called them respectively, Keziah, 
Desire, Maria and Beriah which odd names he had 
shortened into Kizzy and Dizzy, Rier and Brier. My 
father, who had lived with them when a boy, had often 
talked of Morton Park, and once when he was telling 
me of the grand old house, with its wide piazza and 
Corinthian pillars, its handsome grounds and the troop 
of blacks ready to come at his call, I had asked him 
why he didn't go back there, saying I should like it 
better than our small cottage, where there were no 
grounds and no Corinthian pillars and no blacks to wait 

[ 235 ] 


£36 


*THE EEPBURN LINE* 


upon us. For a moment he did not answer, but glanced 
at my mother with a look of unutterable tenderness, 
then, drawing us both closely to him, he said, “ If I go 
there I must leave you behind ; and I would rather 
have mamma and you than all the blacks and Corinthian 
pillars in the world.” 

Although very young, I felt intuitively that Morton 
Park was not a pleasant topic of conversation, and I 
rarely spoke of it to him after that, but I often thought 
of it, with its Corinthian pillars for which I had a great 
reverence, and of the blacks, and the maple-trees, and 
the solid silver from which my aunts dined every day, 
and wondered when they were so rich why we were so 
poor and why my father worked as hard as I knew he 
did, for he often lay upon the couch, saying he was 
tired, and looking very pale about his mouth, with a 
bright red spot on either cheek. I heard some one call 
these spots “ the hectic,” but did not know what this 
meant until later on, when he stayed in bed all the time 
and the doctor said he was dying with quick consump- 
tion. Then there came a day when I was called from 
school and hurried home to find him dead, — my hand- 
some young father, who had always been so loving to 
me, and whose last words were, “ Tell little Doris to be 
a good girl and kind to her mother. God bless her !” 

The blow was so sudden that for a time my mother 
seemed stunned and incapable of action, but she was 
roused at last by a letter from my Aunt Keziah, to whom 
she had written after my father’s death. I say a letter, 
but it was only an envelope containing a check for a 
hundred dollars and a slip of paper with the words, 

“ For Gerold’s child,” and when my mother saw it there 
was a look on her face which I had never seen before, 


MT AUNTS. 


237 


and I think her first impulse was to tear up the check, 
but, reflecting that it was not hers to destroy, she only 
burned the paper and put the money in the bank for 
me, and then went bravely to work to earn her living 
and mine, sometimes taking boarders, sometimes going 
out to nurse sick people, and at last doing dressmaking 
at home and succeeding so well that I never knew what 
real poverty was, and was as happy and free from care 
as children usually are. 

My father had been an artist, painting landscapes and 
portraits when he could find sale for them, and, when 
he could not, painting houses, barns and fences, for 
although he had been reared in the midst of luxury, and, 
as I now know, belonged to one of the best families in 
Kentucky, he held that all kinds of labor, if necessary, 
were honorable, and was not ashamed to stand in his 
overalls side by side with men who in birth and educa- 
tion were greatly his inferiors. At the time of his 
death he had in his studio a few pictures which had not 
been sold. Among them was a small one of the house 
in Morton Park, with its huge white pillars and tall trees 
in front, and one or two negroes playing under the 
trees. This I claimed for my own, and also another, 
which was a picture of his four aunts taken in a group 
in what seemed to be a summer-house. “ The Quar- 
tette,” he called it, and I had watched him with a great 
deal of interest as he brought into seeming real life the 
four faces so unlike each other, Aunt Kizzy, stern and 
severe and prim, with a cap on her head after the Eng- 
lish style, which she affected because her grandfather 
was English,— Aunt Dizzy, who was very pretty and 
very youthfully dressed, with flowers in her hair, — Aunt 
Rier, a gentle, matronly woman, with a fat baby in her 


238 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


lap which I did not think particularly good-looking, — 
and Aunt Brier, with a sweet face like a Madonna and 
a far-away look in her soft gray eyes which reminded 
one of Evangeline. Behind the four was my father, 
leaning over Aunt Rier and holding a rose before the 
baby, who was trying to reach it. The picture fas- 
cinated me greatly, and when I heard it was to be sold, 
with whatever other effects there were in the studio, I 
begged to keep it. But my mother said No, with the 
same look on her face which I had seen when she 
burned Aunt Kizzy’s letter. And so it was sold to a 
gentleman from Boston, who was spending the summer 
in Meadowbrook, and I thought no more of it until years 
after, when it was brought to my mind in a most unex- 
pected manner. 

I was ten when I lost my father, and fourteen when 
my mother, too, died suddenly, and I was alone, with no 
home except the one the rector kindly offered me until 
something should be heard from my aunts. My mother 
had seemed so well and active, and, with her brilliant 
color and beautiful blue eyes and chestnut hair which 
lay in soft waves all over her head, had been so pretty 
and young and girlish-looking, that it was hard to be- 
lieve her dead, and the hearts of few girls of fourteen 
have ever been wrung with such anguish as I felt when, 
after her funeral, I lay down upon a bed in the rectory 
and sobbed myself into a disturbed sleep, from which I 
was roused by the sound of voices in the adjoining room, 
where a neighbor was talking with Mrs. Wilmot, the 
rector’s wife, of me and my future. 

“ Her aunts will have tb do something now. They 
will be ashamed not to. Do you know why they have 
so persistently ignored Mr. and Mrs. Gerold Morton ?” 


MY AUNTS. 


239 


It was Mrs. Smith, the neighbor, who asked the ques- 
tion, and Mrs. Wilmot replied, “ I know but little, as 
Mrs. Morton was very reticent upon the subject. I 
think, however, that the aunts were angry because 
G-erold, who had always lived with them, made what 
they thought a misalliance by marrying the daughter 
3f the woman with whom he boarded when in college. 
They had in mind another match for him, and when he 
disappointed them, they refused to recognize his wife 
or to see him again.” 

“ But did he have nothing from his father ? I thought 
the Mortons were very rich,” Mrs. Smith said, and Mrs. 
Wilmot answered her, “ Nothing at all, for his father, 
too, had married against the wishes of his father, a very 
hard and strange man, I imagine, who promptly disin- 
herited his son. But when the young wife died at the 
birth of her child, the aunts took the little boy Gerold 
and brought him up as their own. I do not at all un- 
derstand it, but I believe the Morton estate is held by a 
long lease and will eventually pass from the family 
unless some one of them marries somebody in the fam- 
ily of the old man who gave the lease.” 

“ They seem to be given to misalliances,” Mrs. Smith 
rejoined ; “but if they could have seen Gerold’s wife 
they must have loved her, she was so sweet and pretty. 
Doris is like her. She will be a beautiful woman, and 
her face alone should commend her to her aunts.” 

No girl of fourteen can hear unmoved that she is 
lovely, and, although I was hot with indignation at my 
aunts for their treatment of^rny father and their con- 
tempt for my mother, I was conscious of a stir of grati- 
fication, and as I went to the w r ash-stand to bathe my 
burning forehead I glanced at myself in the mirror. 


240 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


My face was swollen with weeping, and my eyes were 
very red, with dark circles around them, but they were 
like my mother’s, and my hair was like hers, too, and 
there was an expression about my mouth which brought 
her back to me. I was like my mother, and I was glad 
she had left me her heritage of beauty, although I cared 
but little whether it commended me to my aunts or 
not, as I meant to keep aloof from them, if possible. I 
could take care of myself, I thought, and any hardship 
would be preferable to living with them, even should 
they wish to have me do so, which was doubtful. 

To Mrs. Wilmot I said nothing of what I had over- 
heard, but waited in some anxiety for Aunt Kizzy’s 
letter, which came ahout two weeks after my mother’s 
death. It was directed to Mr. Wilmot, and was as 
follows : 


“ Morton Park, September io, 18 — . 

“ Rev. J. S. Wilmot : 

“ Dear Sir, — Your letter is received, and I have de- 
layed my reply until we could give our careful consid- 
eration as to what to do, or rather how to do it. We 
have, of course, no option in the matter as to what to 
do, for naturally we must care for Gerold’s daughter, 
but we shall do it in the way most agreeable to ourselves. 
As you will have inferred, we are all elderly people, 
and I am old. I shall be sixty next January. MiSs 
Desire, my sister, is forty-seven. (Between her and my- 
self there were two boys who died in infancy.) Maria, 
my second sister, would, if living, be forty-five, and 
Beriah is nearly thirty-eight. Thus, you see, we are no 
longer young, but are just quiet people, with our habits 
too firmly fixed to have them broken in upon by a girl 
who probably talks slang and would fill the house w r ith 
noise and chatter, singing at most inopportune mo- 
ments, banging the doors, pulling the books from th§ 


MY AUNTS. 


241 


shelves and the chairs into the middle of the rooms, and 
upsetting things generally. No, we couldn’t bear it, 
and just the thought of it has given me a chill. 

“ We expect to educate the girl, — Doris, I think you 
called her, — but it must be at the North. If there is a 
good school in Meadowbrook, perhaps it will be well 
for her to remain there for a while, and if you choose to 
retain her in your family you will be suitably remuner- 
ated for all the expense and trouble. When she is 
older I shall place her in some institution where she 
will receive a thorough education, besides learning the 
customs of good society. After that we may bring her 
to Morton Park. For the present, however, I prefer 
that she should remain with you, for, as you are a 
clergyman, you will attend to her moral training and 
see that she is staunch and true in every respect. I hate 
deception of all kinds, and I wish her to learn the 
Lord’s Prayer and the Ten Commandments and the 
Creed, and to be confirmed at the proper age. She is 
about ten now, is she not ? 

“ Enclosed you will find a check sufficient, I think, for 
the present necessities. If more is needed, it will be 
sent. Please let me know if there is a good school in 
Meadowbrook, and if there is none, will you kindly re- 
commend one which you think suitable ? 

“ Yours truly, 

“ Miss Keziah Morton.” 

This was the letter which I read, looking over Mr, 
Wilmot’s shoulder, and growing more and more angry 
as I read, it was so heartless and cold, with no word of 
real interest or sympathy for me, who was merely a 
burden which must be carried, whether she were will- 
ing or not. 

“ I’ll never accept a penny from her,” I exclaimed, 
“and you may tell her so. I’d rather scrub than be 
dependent upon these proud relatives, who evidently 
think me a heathen. The Lords Prayer, indeed ! and 


242 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


I fourteen years old ! I wonder if she thinks I know 
how to read !” 

I was very defiant and determined, but after a little I 
grew calmer, and as the graded school in Meadowbrook, 
which [ had always attended, was excellent of its kind, 
and the Wilmots were glad to have me with them, I 
consented at last that a letter to that effect should be 
forwarded to Kentucky. But when Mr. Wilmot sug- 
gested that I, too, should write and thank my aunt for 
her kindness, I stoutly refused. I was not thankful, I 
said, neither did I think her kind as I understood kind- 
ness, and I could not tell a lie. Later, however, it 
occurred to me that as she had said she wished me to be 
true and staunch, and that she hated deception, it might 
be well to let her know just how I felt towards her, so 
as not to occupy a false position in the future. Accord- 
ingly I wrote a letter, of which the following is a copy : 


“ Meadowbrook, Mass., September — , 18 — . 

“ Miss Keziah Morton : 

“ Dear Madam, — Mr. Wilmot has told you that there 
is a good school in Meadowbrook and that he is glad to 
keep me in his family. He wished me also to thank you 
for your kindness in furnishing the means for my educa- 
tion, and if I really felt thankful I would do so. But I 
don’t, and I cannot pretend to be grateful, for I do not 
think your offer was made in kindness, but because, as 
you said in your letter, you had no option except to 
care for me. You said, too, that you did not like decep- 
tion of any kind, and I think I’d better tell you how I 
feel about accepting help from you. Since my mother 
died I have accidentally heard how you treated her and 
neglected my father because of her, and naturally I atn 
indignant, for a sweeter, lovelier woman than my 
mother never lived. When she died and left me alone, 
there was a leaning in my heart towards you and the 


MY AUNTS. 


243 


other aunts, because you were the only relatives I have 
in the world, and if you had shown the least sympathy 
for me I could have loved you so much. But in your 
letter you never said one word of pity or comfort. You 
offered to educate me, that was all. But I prefer to 
care for myself, and I can do it, too. I am fourteen, 
and can earn my own living. I can make dresses, as 
mother did after father died, or I can do second work 
until I have enough to pay for my schooling. And I 
would rather do it than be indebted to any one, and if, 
when you get this, you think best to change your mind, 
I 'shall be glad. But if you do not, I shall try to 
improve every moment and get a thorough education as 
soon as possible, and when I can I shall pay you every 
dollar you expend for me, and you need have no fears 
that I shall ever disgrace my father’s name, or you 
either. 

“ I used to think that I should like to see Morton 
Park, as it was once my father’s home, but since read- 
ing your letter I have no desire to go there and bang 
doors, and pull the books from the shelves, and sing, 
whether invited to or not, and shock you with slang. I 
suppose I do use some, — all the girls do, and example is 
contagious, — and I am fond of singing, and would like 
nothing better than to take lessons in vocal and instru- 
mental music, but I am not quite a heathen, and can 
hardly remember when I did not know the Lord’s 
Prayer, and Ten Commandments, and Creed. But I 
have not been confirmed, and do not intend to be until 
I am a great deal better than I am now, for I believe 
there is something necessary to confirmation besides 
mere intellectual knowledge. Father and mother 
taught me that, and they were true Christians. 

“ Father used sometimes to tell me of his home and 
his aunts, who were kind to him, and so, perhaps, you 
would like to know how peacefully he died, and how 
handsome he was in his coffin, just as if he were asleep. 
But mother was lovelier still, with such a sweet smile on 
her face, and her dear little hands folded upon her 
bosom. There were needle-pricks and marks of the 


244 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


hard work she had done on her fingers, but I covered 
them with great bunches of the white pond-lilies she 
loved so much, and then kissed her good-bye forever, 
with a feeling that my heart was broken ; and, oh, it 
aches so now when I remember that in all the world 
there is no one who cares for me, or on whom I have 
any claim. 

“ I don’t know why I have written this to you, who, 
of course, have no interest in it, but guess I did it 
because I am sure you once loved father a little. I do 
not expect you to love me, but if I can ever be of any 
service to you I will, for father’s sake ; and something 
tells me that in the future, I don’t know when or how, I 
shall bring you some good. Until then adieu. 

“Doris Morton.” 

I knew this was not the kind of letter which a girl of 
fourteen should send to a woman of sixty, but I was 
indignant and hot-headed and young, and felt that in 
some way I was avenging my mother’s wrongs, and so 
the letter was sent, unknown to the Wilmots, and I 
waited anxiously for the result. But there was none, so 
far as I knew. Aunt Kizzy did not answer it, and in 
her letter to Mr. Wilmot she made no reference to it. 
She merely said she was glad I was to live in a clergy- 
man’s family under religious influence, and added that 
if I had a good voice and he thought it desirable I was 
to have instruction in both vocal and instrumental 
music. 

It did not occur to me to connect this with anything 
I had written, but I was very glad, for I was passion- 
ately fond of music, as I was of books generally. And 
so for two years I was a pupil in the High School in 
Meadowbrook, passing from one grade to another, until 
at last I was graduated with all the honors which such 
an institution could give, 


MY AUNTS. 


245 


During this time not a word had ever been written to 
me by my aunts. The bills had been regularly paid 
through Mr. Wilmot, to whom Aunt Kizzy’s letters 
were addressed, and at the end of every quarter a report 
of my standing in scholarship and deportment had been 
forwarded to Kentucky. And that was all I knew of 
my relatives, who might have been Kamschatkans for 
anything they were to me. 

About six months before I was graduated, Mr. Wil- 
mot was told that I was to be sent to Madame De 
Moisiere’s School in Boston, and then, three months 
later, without any reason for the change, I learned that 
I was to go to Wellesley, provided I could pass the nec- 
essary examination. Of this I had no fears, but the 
change disappointed me greatly, as I had heard glowing- 
accounts of Madame De Moisiere’s School from a girl 
friend who had been there, and at first I rebelled against 
Wellesley, which I fancied meant nothing but hard 
study, with little recreation. But there was no help for 
it. Aunt Keziah’s law was the law of the Medes and 
Persians, and one morning in September I said good- 
bye to Meadowbrook and started for Wellesley, which 
seemed to me then a kind of intellectual prison. 


246 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


CHAPTER II. — Beriah’s story. 

DORIS. 

Morton Park, June — , 18 — . 

Ten o’clock at night, and I have brought out my old 
book for a little chat. I am sure I don’t know why I 
continue to write in my journal, when I am nearly 
forty years old, unless it is because I began it nine- 
teen years ago, on the day after I said good-bye to Tom 
forever and felt that my heart was broken. It was 
just such a moonlight night as this when we walked 
under the elms in the Park and he told me I was a 
coward, because I would not brave Kizzy’s wrath and 
marry out of the “ accursed Hepburn line,” as he called 
it. Well, I was afraid of Kizzy, and shrank from all 
the bitterness and trouble which has come to us 
through that Hepburn line. First, there was my 
brother Douglas, twenty-five years older than I am, 
who, because he married the girl he loved, instead of 
the one he didn’t, was sent adrift without a dollar. 
Why didn’t my father, I wonder, marry into the line 
himself, and so save all this trouble ? Probably be- 
cause he was so far removed from the crisis now so 
fast approaching, that he ventured to take my mother, 
to whom he was always tender and loving, showing 
that there was kindness in his nature, although he 
could be so hard on Douglas and the dear little wife 
who died when Gerold was born. Then came the ter- 
rible time when both my father and mother were 
swept away on the same day by the cholera, and six 


DORIS. 


247 


months after Douglas died, and his boy Gerold came to 
live with us, He was two years my senior, and more 
like my brother than my nephew, and I loved him 
dearly and spoke up for him when Kizzy turned him 
out, just as Douglas had been turned out before him, 
Had I dared I would have written to him and assured 
him of my love, but I could not, so great was my dread 
of Keziah, who exercises a kind of hypnotic power 
over us all. She tried to keep Desire from the man of 
her choice, and might have succeeded, if death had not 
forestalled her. She sent Tom away from me, and 
only yielded to Maria, who had a will as strong as her 
own and married whom she pleased. But she, too, died 
just after her husband, who was shot in the battle of 
Fredericksburgh, and we have no one left but her boy 
Grant, who is almost as dear to me as Gerold was. 

Grant is a young man now, and I trust he will marry 
Dorothea, and so break the evil spell which that old 
man must have put upon us when to the long lease of 
ninety years given to my grandfather he tacked that 
strange condition that if before the expiration of the 
lease a direct heir of Joseph Morton, of Woodford 
County, Kentucky, married a direct heir of Amos Hep- 
burn, of Keswick, England, only half the value of the 
property leased should revert to the Hepburn heir, 
while the other half should remain in the Morton 
family. If no such marriage has taken place, uniting 
the houses of Morton and Hepburn, then the entire 
property goes to the direct heir of the Hepburns. I 
believe I have stated it as it is worded in that old yel- 
low document which Keziah keeps in the family Bible 
and reads every day with a growing dread of what will 
soon befall us unless Grant marries Dorothea, who, so 


248 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


far as we know, stands first in the Hepburn line, and to 
whom the Morton estate will go if it passes from our 
hands. 

I have sometimes doubted if that clause would stand 
the test of law, and have said so to Keziah, suggesting 
to her to take advice on the subject. But she treated 
my suggestion with scorn, charging me with wishing to 
be dishonest, and saying that even if it were illegal it 
was the request of Amos Hepburn, and father had in- 
stilled it into her mind that a dead man’s wish was law, 
and she should abide by it. Neither would she allow 
me to ask any legal advice, or talk about the matter to 
any one. 

“ It is our own business,” she said, “ and if we choose 
to give up our home it concerns no one but ourselves.” 

But she does not expect to give it up, for our hopes 
are centred on Grant’s marrying Dorothea ; and as one 
means of accomplishing this end he must be kept from 
Doris and all knowledge of her. 

Poor little orphaned Doris ! I wonder what she is 
like, and why Keziah is so hard upon her ! She is not 
to blame because her father married the daughter of 
his landlady, whom Keziah calls a cook. How well I 
I recall a morning two or three years ago when, at the 
tick of the clock announcing eight, Kizzy and Dizzy 
and I marched solemnly down to breakfast just as we 
have done for the last twenty years and shall for twenty 
more if we live so long, Keziah first in her black dress 
and lace cap, with her keys jingling at her side, Desire 
next, in her white gown and blue ribbons, which she 
w T ilh wear until she is seventy, and I, in my chintz 
wrapper of lavender and white, colors which Tom said 
were becoming to me and which I usually select. I 


t)OKIS. 


349 

can hear the swish of our skirts on the stairs, and see 
the round table with its china and glass and flowers, 
and old Abe, the butler, bringing in the coffee and 
toast, and a letter for Keziah, who read it twice, and 
then, folding it very deliberately, said, “ Gerold’s widow 
is dead and has left a little girl, and a Rev. Mr. Wil- 
mot has written to know what is to be done with her.” 

“ Oh, bring her here, by all means !” both Dizzy and 
I exclaimed in a breath, while Keziah’s face, which is 
always severe and stern, grew more so as she replied, 
in the tone from which there is no appeal, “ She will 
stay where she is, if there is a decent school there. I 
shall educate her, of course ; there is no alternative ; 
but she cannot come here until she is sufficiently culti- 
vated not to mortify us with her bad manners, as blood 
will tell. I have never forgiven her mother for marry- 
ing Gerold, and I cannot yet forgive this girl for be- 
ing that woman’s daughter.” 

Both Desire and myself knew how useless it was to 
combat Keziah when her mind was made up. So we 
said nothing more about the child, and kept as much as 
possible out of Keziah’s way, for when she is disturbed 
she is not a pleasant person to meet in a tete-a-tete. We 
I knew she wrote to Mr. Wilmot, and that he replied, 
and then, two days after, when we went down to 
breakfast, we found another letter for Keziah. It was 
from Doris, and Keziah read it aloud, while her voice 
and hands shook with wrath, and Desire and I ex- 
changed glances of satisfaction and touched each other 
slyly with our feet in token of sympathy with the child, 
who dared write thus to one who had ruled us so 
long that we submitted to her now without a protest. 
It was a very saucy letter, but it showed the mettle of 


250 


THE HEPBURN LINfc. 


the girl, and I respected her for it, and my heart went 
out to her with a great pity when she said, “ If you had 
shown the least sympathy for me I could have loved 
you so much, but you did not. You offered to care for 
me because you felt that you must, but you never sent 
me one word of pity or comfort.” 

“ Oh, Keziah,” I exclaimed at this point, “ is that true ? 
Did you write to Mr. Wilmot and say no word to the 
child ?” 

“ I never say what I do not feel,” was Keziah’s answer, 
as she read on, and when she had finished the letter 
she added, “ She is an ungrateful girl, fitter for a dress- 
maker or maid, no doubt, than for anything higher. But 
she is a Morton, and must not be suffered to do a 
menial’s work. I shall educate her in my own way, but 
shall not recognize her socially until I know the kind of 
woman into which she develops. Neither must you 
waste any sentimentality upon her, or make any ad- 
vances in the shape of letters, for I will not have it. 
Let her stand alone awhile. She seems to be equal to it. 

And ” here she hesitated, while her pale cheek 

flushed a little, as she continued, “ she is older than I 
supposed. She is fourteen, — very pretty, or beautiful, 
I think Mr. Wilmot said, and that does not commend 
her to me. You know how susceptible Grant is to 
beauty, and there must be no more mistakes. The time 
is too short for that. Grant is going to Andover, 
which is not far from Meadowbrook, and if he knew of 
this girl, who is his second cousin, nothing could keep 
him from seeing her, and there is no telling what com- 
plications might arise, for she is undoubtedly designing 
like her mother, who won Gerold from the woman he 
should have married. Consequently you are to say 


DORIS. 


251 


nothing to Grant of this girl ; then, if he chances to 
meet her and trouble comes of it, I shall know the hand 
of fate is in it.” 

“ But, Keziah,” I remonstrated, “ you surely cannot 
expect that Grant will never know anything of Doris ? 
That is preposterous !” 

“ He need know nothing of her until matters are ar- 
ranged between him and Dorothea, who is only fifteen 
now, while he is eighteen, — both too young as yet for an 
engagement. But it must be. It shall be !” 

She spoke with great energy, and we, who knew her 
so well, felt sure that it would be, and knew that so far 
as Grant or any of us were concerned, Doris was to re- 
main a myth until such time as Keziah chose to bring 
her home. But if we could not speak of her to Grant, 
Desire and I talked of her often between ourselves, 
and two or three times I began a letter to her, but al- 
ways burned it, so great was my fear of Keziah’s dis- 
pleasure should she find it out. We knew the girl was 
well cared for and happy, and that she stood high in all 
her classes, for the very best of reports came regularly 
from her teachers, both with regard to deportment and 
to scholarship. Perhaps I am wrong, but I cannot help 
thinking that Keziah would have been better pleased if 
some fault had been found in order to confirm her 
theory that blood will tell. But there has been none, 
and she was graduated with honor at the High School 
in Meadowbrook, and every arrangement was made for 
her to go to Madame De Moisiere’s school in Boston, 
where she particularly wished to go, when suddenly 
Keziah changed her mind in favor of Wellesley, where 
Doris did not wish to go. “ She is bitterly disappointed, 
and I shall be glad if you can think best to adhere to 


252 


THE HEHbUHH LtttE. 


your first plan/’ Mr. Wilmot wrote, but did not move 
Keziah a whit. It was either Wellesley or some out-of- 
the-way place in Maine, which I do not recall. Doris 
has chosen Wellesley, of course, while Dizzy and I have 
put our wits to work to find the cause of the change, 
and I think we have found it. Dorothea has suddenly 
made up her mind to go to Madame De Moisiere. 

“ I don’t care for books, any way,” she wrote. “ I am a 
dunce, and everybody knows it and seems to like me 
just as well. But old Gardy thinks I ought to go some- 
where to be finished, and so I have chosen De Moisiere, 
where I expect to have no end of fun provided I can 
hoodwink the teachers, and I think I can. Besides, 
as you may suspect, the fact that Grant has finished 
Andover and is now in Harvard has a good deal to do 
with my choice, for he will call upon me, of course. I 
shall be so proud of him, as I hear he is very popular, 
and all the girls will be green with envy !” 

“The dear rattle-brained child,” Keziah said, chuck- 
ling over the letter, as she would not have chuckled if it 
had been from Doris, — “ the dear rattle-brained child ! 
Of course Grant must call, and I shall write to the pro- 
fessors, giving my permission, and to Madame asking 
her to allow him to see her.” 

Poor, innocent Kizzy ! It is so many years since she 
was at boarding-school, where she was kept behind bars 
and bolts, and she knows so little how fast the world 
has moved since then, that she really believes young 
people are kept as closely now as they were forty years 
ago. What would she say if she knew how many times 
Grant was at Madame’s while he was at Andover and 
during his first year at Harvard, and how many flirta- 
tions he has had with the girls, whom he calls a jolly 


DORIS. 


253 


lot. All this he confided to Dizzy 'and myself, when at 
the vacation he came home, fresh and breezy and full 
of fun and frolic and noise, making our quiet house re- 
sound with his college songs and Harvard yells, which 
I think are hideous, and rather fast, if not low. But 
Kizzy never utters a word of protest, and pays without 
questioning the enormous bills sent to her, and seems 
gratified to know that his rooms are as handsome and 
his turnout as fine as any in Cambridge. 

Grant has the first place in Kizzy’s heart, and Doro- 
thea the next, and because she is going to Madame De 
Moisiere, Doris must not go, for naturally she would 
fall in with Dorothea, and through her with Grant, who 
would not be insensible to his pretty cousin’s charms, 
and who would resent his having been kept from her 
so long. Mr. Wilmot has written that she is exceed- 
ingly beautiful, with a manner which attracts every one, 
while some of her teachers have written the same. 
Dorothea, on the contrary, is rather plain. “ Ugly as a 
hedge fence,” Grant once said of her in a fit of pique, 
declaring that if he ever married, it would be to a pretty 
face. And so he must not see Doris until he is en- 
gaged to Dorothea, as it seems likely he soon will be, 
and Doris is going to Wellesley, where Kizzy thinks 
Grant has never been and never can go without her 
permission ! Deluded Kizzy ! Grant knows at least a 
dozen Wellesley girls, each one of whom he designates 
a brick. Will he find Doris, I wonder ? I cannot help 
hoping so. Ah, well, the world is a queer mixture, and 
nous verrons. 

It is growing late, and everybody in and around the 
house is asleep, except myself and Nero, the watch-dog, 
who is fiercely baying the moon or barking at some 


254 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


thieving negro stealing our eggs or chickens. The 
clock is striking twelve, and I must say good-night to 
my journal and to Tom, if he is still alive, and to dear 
little Doris : so leaning from my window into the cool 
night air, I will kiss my hand to the north and south 
and east and west, and say God bless them both, where- 
ever they are. 


CHAPTER III.— Doris’s Story. 

GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 

It was -a lovely morning in September when, with 
Lucy Pierce, a girl friend, I took the train for Boston, 
where I was to spend the night with Lucy’s aunt, who 
lived there, and the next day go to Wellesley. Soon 
after we were seated, a young man who had formerly 
lived in Meadowbrook, but was now a clerk in some 
house in Chicago and was going to Boston on business, 
entered the car, and after the first greetings were over, 
said to us, “ I saw you get in at Meadowbrook, and 
have come to speak with you and have a little rest. 
The through sleeper from Chicago and Cincinnati is half 
full of school girls and Harvard boys, who have 
kept up such a row. Why, it was after twelve last 
night before they gave us a chance to sleep. They are 
ha dng a concert now, and a girl from Cincinnati, whom 
they call Thea, and who seems to be the ringleader, is 
playing the banjo, while another shakes a tambourine, 
and a tall fellow from Kentucky, whom they call Gen- 
eral Grant, is whistling an accompaniment. I rather 


GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 


255 


think Miss Thea is pretty far gone with the general, the 
way she turns her great black eyes on him, and I 
wouldn’t wonder if he were a little mashed on her, 
although she is not what I call pretty. And yet she 
has a face which one would look at twice, and like it 
better the second time than the first ; and, by Jove, she 
handles that banjo well. I wish you could see her.” 

When we reached Worcester, where we were to stop 
a few minutes, Lucy and I went into the sleeper, from 
which many of the passengers had alighted, leaving it 
free to the girls and the Harvards, who were enjoying 
themselves to their utmost. The concert was at its 
height, banjo and tambourine-players and whistler all 
doing their best, and it must be confessed that the best 
was very good. Thea was evidently the centre of at- 
traction, as, with her hat off and her curly bangs 
pushed back from her forehead, her white fingers swept 
the strings of the banjo with a certain inimitable grace, 
and her brilliant, laughing eyes looked up to the young 
man, who was bending over her with his back to me so 
I could not see his face. I only knew he was tall and 
broad-shouldered, with light brown hair which curled 
at the ends, and that his appearance was that of one 
bred in a city, who has never done anything in his life 
but enjoy himself. And still he fascinated me almost 
as much as Thea, who, as I passed her, said to him, with 
a soft Southern accent, “ For shame, Grant, — to make 
so horrid a discord ! I believe you did it on purpose, 
and I shall not play any more. The concert is ended ; 
pass round the hat and, dropping her banjo on her 
lap and running her fingers through her short hair 
until it stood up all over her head, she leaned back as if 
exhausted and fanned herself with her sailor hat. With 


256 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


the exception of her eyes and hair, she was not pretty 
in the usual acceptation of the term. But, as young 
Herring had said, one would turn to look at her twice 
and like her better the second time than the first, for 
there was an irresistible charm in her manner and smile 
and voice, which to me seemed better than mere beauty 
of feature and complexion. 

When he reached the depot in Boston I saw her 
again, and then thought her very pretty as she stood 
upon the platform, taking her numerous parcels from 
“ General ” Grant, with whom she was gayly chatter- 
ing. 

“Now mind you come soon. I shall be so homesick 
till I see you. I am half homesick now,” she said, 
brushing a tear, either real or feigned, from her eyes. 

“ But suppose they won’t let me call ? They are 
awfully stiff when they get their backs up, and they 
are not very fond of me,” the young man said, and she 
replied, “Oh, they will, for your aunt and Gardy are 
going to write and ask permission for me to see you, so 
that is fixed. Au revoir .” And, kissing her fingers to 
him, she followed her companions, while Grant went to 
look for his baggage. 

He had been standing with his back to me, but as he 
turned I saw his face distinctly and started involuntarily 
with the thought that I had seen him before, or some- 
body like him. Surely there was something familiar 
about him, and the memory of my dead father came 
back to me and was associated with this young man, 
thoughts of whom clung to me persistently, until the 
strangeness and novelty of Wellesley drove him and 
Thea from my mind for a time. 

Of my student life at Wellesley, I shall say but little, 


GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 


257 


except that as a student I was contented and happy. I 
loved study for its own sake, and no task was too long, 
no lesson too hard, for tne to master. I stood high in 
all my classes, and was popular with my teachers and 
the few girls whom I chose as my friends. And still 
there was constantly with me a feeling of unrest, — a 
longing for something I could not have. Mordecai sat 
in the gate, and my Mordecai was the restrictions with 
which my Aunt Keziah hedged me round, not only in a 
letter written to my teachers, but in one which she sent 
to me when I had been in Wellesley three or four weeks. 
I was not expecting it, and at the sight of her hand- 
writing my heart gave a great bound, for she was my 
blood relation, and although I had no reason to love 
her, I had more than once found myself wishing for 
some recognition from her. At last it had come, I 
thought, and with moist eyes and trembling hands I 
opened the letter, which was as follows : 

“ Dear Doris, — It has come to my knowledge that a 
great deal more license is allowed to young people than 
in my day, and that young men sometimes call upon 
or manage to see school-girls without the permission of 
their parents or guardians. This is very reprehensible, 
and something I cannot sanction. I am at a great ex- 
pense for your education, in order that you may do 
credit to your father’s name, and I wish you to devote 
your entire energies and thoughts to your books, and 
on no account to receive calls or attentions of any kind 
from any one, and especially a Harvard student. My 
orders are strict in this respect, and I have communi- 
cated them to your Principal. You can, if accompanied 
by a teacher, go occasionally to a concert or a lecture in 
Boston, but, as a rule you are better in the building, 
and must have nothing to do with the Harvarders. 
Your past record is good and I expect your future to 


258 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


be the same, and shall be pleased accordingly. I shall 

send your quarter’s spending money to Miss , who 

will give it to you as you need it, and I do this because 
I hear that girls at school are sometimes given to buy- 
ing candy by the box, — French candy, too, — and sweets 
by the jar, and to having spreads, whatever these may 
be. But you can afford none of these extravagancies, 
and, lest you should be tempted to indulge in them, I 
have removed the possibility from your way by giving 

your allowance to Miss , and I wish you to keep an 

account of all your little incidental expenses, and send 
it to me with the quarterly reports of your standing. 

“ I have arranged with the Wilmots for you to spend 
your vacations with them. But when your education 
is finished, if your record is as good as it has been, you 
will come to us, of course, if we have a home for you to 
come to. There is a dark cloud hanging over us, and 
whether it will burst or not I cannot tell. If it does, 
you may be obliged to earn your own living, and hence 
the necessity for you to get a thorough education. I am 
thankful to say that, for people of our years, your aunts 
and myself are in comfortable health. If you wish to 
write me occasionally and tell me of your life at Welles- 
ley, you can do so, but you must not expect prompt re- 
plies, as people at my time of life are not given to vol- 
uminous correspondence. 

“ Yours truly, 

“ Keziah Morton.” 

I had opened the letter with eager anticipations of 
what it might contain, but when I finished it my heart 
was hardening with a sense of the injustice done me by 
treating me as if I were a little child, who could not be 
trusted with my own pocket money, and who was to 
give an account for every penny spent, from a postage 
stamp to a car fare. And this at first hurt me worse 
than the other restrictions. I did not know much about 
the Harvard boj T s or spreads, and I did not care espe- 


GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 


259 


daily for French candy and sweets, but now that they 
were so summarily forbidden, I began to want them a;. ! 
to rebel against the chains which bound me, and as the 
weeks and months went on, I became more and more 
conscious of a feeling of desolation and loneliness, which 
at times made me very unhappy. In Meadowbrook I 
had been so kindly cared for by the Wilmots that, ex- 
cept for the sense of loss when I thought of my mother, 
I had not fully realized how alone I was in the world ; 
but at Wellesley, when I heard my companions talk of 
their homes and saw their delight when letters came to 
them from father or mother or brothers or sisters, I 
used to go away and cry with an intense longing for the 
love of some one of my own kindred and friends. I had 
no letters from home and no home to go to during the 
vacations except that of the Wilmots, who always made 
me welcome. I stood alone, a sort of goody-goody , as the 
girls called me when I resisted their entreaties to join 
in violation of the rules. I took no part in what Aunt 
Keziah called spreads. I seldom saw a Harvard stm 
dent, but heard a good deal about them and learned 
that they were not the monsters Aunt Kizzy thought 
them to be. 

My room-mate, Mabel Stearns, had a brother in 
Harvard, whose intimate friend was called General 
Grant, but whose real name was Grantley Montague, 
Mabel said, adding that he was a Kentuckian and be- 
longed to a very aristocratic family. He was reported 
to be rich, spending his money freely, and while always 
managing to have his lessons and stand well with the 
professors, still arranging to have a hand in every bit 
of fun and frolic that came in his way. I heard, too, of 
Dorothea Haynes, who was at Madame De Mosiere’s, 


260 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


She was a great heiress and an orphan, and lived in Cin- 
cinnati with her guardian, whom she called old Gardy, 
who gave her all the money she wanted, and whose 
instructions were that, as she was delicate, she was not 
to have too many lessons or study too hard. Like 
Grantley Montague, she was very popular, and no one 
had so many callers from Harvard. Prominent among 
these was Grantley Montague, who was very lover-like 
in his attentions. Happy Dorothea Haynes, I thought, 
envying her for her money, — which was not doled out 
to her in quarters and halves, — envying her for her 
freedom, and envying her most for her acquaintance 
with Grantley Montague, who occupied much of my 
thoughts, but who seemed as far removed from me as 
the planets from the earth. 

I never went anywhere, except occasionally to a con- 
cert, or a lecture, and to church. I seldom saw any one 
except the teachers and students around me, and ? 
although I was very fond of my books, time dragged 
rather monotonously with me until I had been at 
Wellesley about two and a half years, when Mabel who 
had spent Sunday in Boston came back on Monday 
radiant and full of news which she hastened to com- 
municate. Grantley Montague and her brother Fred 
were soon to give a tea-party under the auspices of her 
married sister, who lived in Cambridge, and who was 
to be assisted by two or three other ladies. I had heard 
of these receptions, where Thea Haynes usually figured 
so prominently in wonderful costumes, but if any wish 
that I might have part in them ever entered my mind, 
it was quickly smothered, for such things were not for 
me, fettered as I was by my aunt Keziah’s orders, which 
were not relaxed in the least, although I was now nine- 


GRANULE? MON'l'AGtJE AND DOROTHEA. 26 i 

teen years of age. How then was I surprised and 
delighted when with Mabel’s invitation there came one 
for me ! It was through her influence, I knew, but I 
was invited, and for a few moments I was happier than 
I had ever been in my life. Then came the thought 
expressed in words, “ Can I go ?” 

“ Certainly,” Mabel said ; “ you have only to write 
your aunt, who will say yes at once, if you tell her how 
much you desire it, and Miss will give her permis- 

sion gladly, for you are the model scholar. You never 
get into scrapes, and have scarcely had an outing 
except a few stupid lectures or concerts with a teacher 
tacked on, and I don’t believe you have spoken to a 
Harvarder since you have been here. Of course she 
will let you go ; if she don’t, she’s an old she-dragon. 
Write to her at once, and blarney her a little, if neces- 
sary.” 

I did not know how to blarney, and I was horribly 
afraid of the she-dragon, as Mabel called her, but I 
wrote her that day, telling her what I wanted, and how 
much pleasure it would give ipe to go. It was the first 
favor I had asked, I said, and I had tried so hard to do 
what I thought would please her, that I hoped she 
would grant it, and, as there was not very much time 
for delay, would she please telegraph her answer ? I 
signed myself, “ Your affectionate niece, Doris Morton,” 
and then waited, anxiously, for a reply. I knew about 
how long it took for a letter to reach Morton Park, and 
on the fourth day after mine was sent I grew so nervous 
that I could scarcely eat or keep my mind upon my les- 
sons. Encouraged by Mabel, I had come to think it 
quite sure that my aunt would consent, and had tried 
on my two evening dresses to see which was the more 


262 


This iiEPBURtf line. 


becoming to me, crimson surah with creamy trimmings, 
or cream-colored cashmere with crimson trimmings. 
Mabel decided for the cashmere, which, she said, soft- 
ened my brilliant color, and I sewed a bit of lace into 
the neck and fastened a bow of ribbon a little more se- 
curely, and was smoothing the folds of the dress and 
wondering what Grantley Montague would think of it 
and me, when there was a knock at my door and a tele- 
gram was handed me. I think the sight of one of 
those yellow missives quickens the pulse of every one, 
and for a moment my heart beat so fast that I could 
scarcely stand. I was alone, for Mabel had gone out, 
and, dropping into a chair, I opened the envelope with 
hands which shook as if I were in a chill. Then every- 
thing swam before my eyes and grew misty, except the 
one word No, which stamped itself upon my brain so 
indelibly that I see it now as distinctly as I saw it then, 
and I feel again the pang of disappointment and the 
sensation as if my heart were beating in my throat and 
choking me to death. I remember trying to cry, with a 
thought that tears might remove the pressure in my 
head, which was like a band of steel. But I could not, 
and for a few moments I sat staring at the word No, 
which for a time turned me into stone. Then I arose 
and hung up the dress I was not to wear, and put away 
the long gloves I had bought to go with it, and was 
standing by the window, looking drearily out upon the 
wintry sky, when Mabel came in, full of excitement and 
loaded with parcels. 

She had been shopping in Boston, and she displayed 
one after another the slippers and fan and handkerchief 
she had bought for the great occasion of which she had 
heard so much. Grantley Montague, she said, was 


&&ANTLEr MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 263 

Sparing no pains to make it the very finest affair of the 
season, and Thea Haynes was having a wonderful cos- 
tume made, although she already had a dozen Paris 
gowns in her wardrobe. Then, as I did not enter very 
heartily into her talk, she suddenly stopped, and, look- 
ing me in the face, exclaimed, “ What is it, Dorey ? 
Has the answer come ?” 

I nodded, and spying the dispatch on the table, she 
snatched it up and read No, and then began pirouetting 
wildly around the room, with exclamations not very 
complimentary to my aunt. 

“ The vile old cat !” she said. “ What does she mean 
by treating you so, and you the model who never do 
anything out of the way, and have never been known 
to join in the least bit of a lark ? But I would spite the 
hateful old woman. I’d be bad if I were you. Suppose 
you jump out of the window to-night, or do something 
to assert your rights. Will you ? A lot of us will 
help.” 

She had expressed aloud much that had passed through 
my mind during the last hour. What was the use of 
being a goody-goody, as I was so often called ? Why not 
be a bady-bady and taste forbidden fruit for once ? I had 
asked myself, half resolving to throw off all restraint 
and see how bad I could be. But when I thought of my 
teachers, who trusted me and whom I loved, and more 
than all when I remembered my dead mother’s words, 
“ If your aunts care for you, respect their wishes as you 
would mine,” my mood changed. I would do right 
whatever came ; and I said so to Mabel, who called me 
a milksop and sundry other names equally expres- 
sive, and declared she would not tell me a thing about 
the reception. But I knew she would, and she did, and 


264 


THE HEPBURN LINE!. 


for days after it I heard of little else than the perfectly 
elegant affair. 

“ Such beautiful rooms,” she said, “ with so many 
pictures, and among them such a funny one of four old 
women sitting in a row, like owls on a pole, with a 
moon-faced baby in the lap of one of them, and a 
young man behind them. It has a magnificent frame, 
and I meant to have asked its history, but forgot it, 
there was so much else to look at.” 

I wonder now that I did not think of my father’s pic- 
ture of his four aunts, which was sold to a Boston dealer 
years before ; but I did not, and Mabel rattled on, tell- 
ing me of the guests, and the dresses, especially that of 
Thea Haynes, which she did not like ; it was too low in 
front and too low in the back, and fitted her form too 
closely, and the sleeves were too short for her thin 
arms. 

“ But then it was all right because it was Thea 
Haynes, and she is very nice and agreeable and striking, 
with winning manners and a sweet voice,” she said. 
“ Everybody was ready to bow down to her, except 
Grantley Montague, who was just as polite to one as to 
another, and who sometimes seemed annoyed at the way 
she monopolized him, as if he were her special property. 
I am so sorry you were not there, as you would have 
thrown her quite in the shade, for you are a thousand 
times handsomer than she.” 

This was of course flattering to my vanity, but it did 
not remove the feeling of disappointment, which lasted 
for a long time and was not greatly lessened when 
about a week after the reception I received from Aunt 
Keziah a letter which I knew was meant to be concilia- 
tory. She was sorry, she said, to have to refuse the first 


GRANTLRV MoNTAGtJE AHD DOROTHEA. 


865 


favor I had ever asked, but she had good reasons, which 
she might some time see fit to tell me, and then she 
referred again to a shadow which was hanging over the 
family, and which made her morbid, she supposed. I 
had no idea what the shadow was, or what connection 
it had with my going to Grantley Montague’s re- 
ception, but I was glad she was making even a slight 
apology for what seemed to me so unjust. She was 
much pleased with the good reports of me, she said, and 
if I liked I might attend a famous opera which she 
heard was soon to be in Boston, and I could have one 
of those long wraps trimmed with fur such as young 
girls wore to evening entertainments, and a new silk 
dress, if I needed it. That was very kind, and Mabel, 
to whom I showed the letter, declared that the dragon 
must have met with a change of heart. 

“ I’d go to the opera,” she said, “ and I’d have the 
wrap trimmed with light fur, and the gown a grayish 
blue, just the color of your eyes when you are excited. 
There are some lovely patterns at Jordan & Marsh’s, 
and sister Clara will help you pick it out, and we’ll have 
a box and go with Clara, and I’ll do your hair beauti- 
fully, and you’ll see how many glasses will be leveled 
at you.” 

Mabel was always comforting and enthusiastic, and I 
began to feel a good deal of interest in the box and the 
dress and the wrap and the opera, which I enjoyed im- 
mensely, and where so many glasses were turned to- 
wards me that my cheeks burned as if I were a culprit 
caught in some wrong act. But there was something 
lacking, and that was Grantley Montague, whom I fully 
expected to see. Neither he nor Thea was there, and 
I heard afterwards that she was ill with a cold and had 


266 


?HE HEPBURN LINE. 


written a pathetic note, begging him not to go and en- 
joy himself when she was feeling so badly and crying 
on her pillow, with her nose a sight to behold. Mabel’s 
brother, who reported this to her, added that when 
Grantley read the note he gave a mild little swear and 
said he reckoned he should go if he liked. But he 
didn’t, and I neither saw him then, nor any time after- 
wards, except in the distance, during my stay at Wel- 
lesley. 

He was graduated the next summer, and left for 
Kentucky, with the reputation of a fair scholar and a 
first rate fellow who had spent quite a fortune during 
his college course. Thea Haynes also left Madame’s, 
where she said she had learned nothing, generously ad- 
ding, however, that it was not the fault of her teachers, 
but because she didn’t try. Some time during the next 
autumn I heard that she had gone to Europe with her 
guardian and maid and a middle-aged governess who 
acted as chaperon, and that Grantley Montague was 
soon to join her in a trip to Egypt. After that I knew no 
more of them except as Mabel occasionally told me what 
she heard from her brother, who had also left Harvard 
and was in San Francisco. To him Grantley wrote in 
February that he was with the Haynes party, which 
had been increased by a second or third cousin of 
Thea’s, a certain Aleck Grady, who was a crank, and 
perfectly daft on the subject of a family tree and the 
missing link in the Hepburn line. 

“ If he finds the missing link,” Fred wrote to his 
sister, “ Grant says it will take quite a fortune from 
Thea, or himself, or both ; and he seems to be a little 
anxious about the link which Aleck Grady is trying to 


GfiANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 267 

find. I don’t know what it means. Think I’ll ask him 
to explain more definitely when I write him again.” 

Neither Mabel nor I could hazard a guess with regard 
to the missing link or the Hepburn line, and I soon for- 
got them entirely in the excitement of preparing for my 
graduation, which was not very far away. I had hoped 
that one of my aunts at least would be present, and had 
written to that effect to Aunt Keziah, telling her how 
lonely it would be for me with no relative present, and 
how earnestly I wished that either she or Aunt Desire 
or Aunt Beriah would come. I even went so far as to 
thank her for all she had done for me and to tell her 
how sorry I was for the saucy letter I wrote to her six 
years ago. I had often wanted to do this, but had 
never quite made up my mind to it until now, when I 
hoped it might bring me a favorable response. But I 
was mistaken. 

It was not possible for herself or either of her sisters 
to come so far, she wrote. She appreciated my wish to 
have her there, she said, and did not esteem me less for 
it. But it could not be. She enclosed money for my 
graduating dress, and also for my traveling expenses, 
for after a brief rest in Meadowbrook I was going to 
Morton Park, in charge of a merchant from Frankfort, 
who would be in New York in July and would meet me 
in Albany. And so, with no relative present to encour- 
age me or be proud of me, I received my diploma and 
more flowers than I knew what to do with, and compli- 
ments enough to turn my head, and then, amid tears 
and kisses and good wishes, bade farewell to my girl 
friends and teachers, one of whom said to me at parting : 
“ If all our pupils were like you, Wellesley would be a 
Paradise.” 


263 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


A model in every respect they called me, and it was 
with quite a high opinion of myself that I went to 
Meadowbrook, where I spent a week, and then, bidding* 
a tearful good-bye to the friends who had been so kind 
to me, I joined Mr. Jones at Albany, and was soon on 
my way to Kentucky. 


CHAPTER IV. — Grantley Montague’s Story. 

ALECK AND THEA. 

Hotel Chapman, Florence, April — , 18 — . 

Nearly everybody keeps a diary at some time in his 
life, I think. Aunt Brier does, I know, and Thea, and 
Aleck, — confound him, with his Hepburn lines and mis- 
sing links ! — and so I may as well be in fashion and 
commence one, even if I tear it up, as I probably shall. 
Well, here we are in Florence, and likely to be until 
Thea is able to travel. Why did she go tearing around 
Rome night and day in all sorts of weather, spooning it 
in the Coliseum by moonlight and declaring she was oh, 
so hot , when my teeth were chattering with'cold, and I 
could see nothing in the beauty she raved about but some 
old broken walls and arches, with shadows here and 
there, which did not look half as pretty as the shadows 
in the park at home ? Europe hasn’t panned out exactly 
as I thought it would, and I am getting confoundedly 
bored. Thea is nice, of course, — too nice, in fact, — but 
a fellow does not want to be compelled to marry a girl 
any way. He’d rather have some choice in the matter, 


ALECK AND THEA. 


269 


which I haven’t had ; but I like Thea immensely, and 
we are engaged. 

There, I’ve blurted it out, and it looks first-rate on 
paper, too. Yes, we are engaged, and this is how it 
happened. Ever since I was knee-high Aunt Keziah 
has dinged it into me that I must marry Thea, or her 
heart would be broken, and the Mortons beggared. I 
wish old Amos Hepburn’s hand had been paralyzed 
before he added to that long lease a condition which has 
brought grief to my Uncle Douglas and cousin Gerold, 
who married an actress, or a cook, or something, because 
he loved her more than he did money. By George, I 
respect him for his independence, and wish I were more 
like him, and not a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow who 
does not know how to do a single useful thing or to earn 
a dollar. 

Well, the time is drawing near for that lease to ex- 
pire, and unless a direct heir of Joseph Morton, my 
great-grandfather, marries a direct heir of Amos Hep- 
burn, the entire Morton estate will revert to the Hep- 
burn heir. Now, I am a direct heir of Joseph Morton, 
and Thea is old Hepburn’s direct heir, which means, ac- 
cording to the way it was explained in the lease, that 
she is the eldest child, whether son or daughter, of the 
eldest child, and so on back to the beginning, when there 
were three daughters of old Amos. Thea comes from 
the second of these daughters, for where the first one 
is the Lord only knows. Aleck Grady descends from 
old Amos’s third daughter, and has no chance while 
Thea lives. Nor does he pretend to want any, as he has 
money enough of his own. He joined our party unin- 
vited in Egypt, and has bored us to death with his 
family tree, and the missing link, which link means 


270 THE HEPBURN LINE. 

the eldest daughter of old Hepburn, of whom noth- 
ing is known after a certain date. And it is she and 
her descendants, if there are any, he is trying to 
hunt up. He is a shrewd fellow, and a kind of quack 
lawyer, too, and once told me that he did not think the 
long lease would hold water a minute in the United 
States, and asked if Aunt Keziah had consulted a first- 
class lawyer, and when I told him that she had not, — 
that it had been a rule in our family not to talk about 
the lease to any one until compelled to do so, and that 
even if she knew the document was invalid she would 
consider herself bound in honor to respect it as her 
father had done before her and enjoined her to do, — 
he shrugged his shoulders and said, “ Chacun a son gotit ; 
but I should dispute that lease inch by inch, and beat 
the Hepburns too.” 

“ Why, then,” I asked, “ are you so anxious to find the 
missing link, as you call it? I always supposed that for 
some reason you wanted to throw Thea out of the 
property.” 

With that insinuating smile of his which Thea thinks 
so winning and I think so disgusting, he replied, “My 
dear fellow, how you mistake me ! I don’t care a picay- 
une who gets the Morton money, if you are fools enough 
to give it up. But I do care for my ancestors ; in fact, 
I have a real affection for my great-aunt Octavia, and 
am most anxious to know what became of her and her 
progeny. I have her as far as New York, where all 
trace of her is lost. Would you like to see the family 
tree ?” 

As I had seen it half a dozen times and knew exactly 
where Octavia failed to connect, I declined, and then 
the conversation turned upon Thea, who, Aleck said, 


ALECK AND THEA. 


271 


was a very nice girl, but a little too fast, and had about 
her too much gush and too much powder to suit him. 
It was strange why girls would gush and giggle and 
plaster their faces with cosmetics and blacken their eye- 
brows until they looked like women of the town, he said, 
appealing to me for confirmation of his opinion. I had 
more than half suspected him of designs on Thea, and 
I flamed up at once in her defense, telling him she 
neither gushed, nor powdered, nor blackened, — three 
lies, as I knew, — but I was angry, and when, with that 
imperturbable good humor which never fails him, he 
continued : “ Don’t get so mad, I beg. I am older than 
you, and know human nature better than you do, and I 
know you pretty well. Why, I’ve made you quite a 
study. Thea, in spite of her powder and gush, is a 
splendid girl, and will make a good wife to the man she 
loves and who loves her, but she is not your ideal, and 
pardon me for suggesting that I don’t believe that you 
would marry her if it were not for that clause about the 
eldest heir, which I don’t think is worth the paper it is 
written on,” — I could have knocked him down, he was 
so cool and patronizing, and was also telling me a good 
deal of truth. But I would not admit it, and insisted 
that I would marry Thea if there had never been any 
Hepburn line and she had not a dollar in the world. 

“ Why don’t you propose, then, and done with it ? 
She is dying to have you,” he said, and I declared I 
would, and that night I asked her to be my wife, and I 
have not regretted it either, although I know she is not 
my ideal. 

But who is my ideal, and where is she, if I have one ? 
I am sure I don’t know, unless it is the owner of a face 
which I have seen but twice, but which comes back to 


272 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


me over and over again, and which I would not forget 
if I could, and could not if I would. The first time I 
saw it was at a concert in Boston, not long before I left 
college. I was in the dress-circle, and diagonally to my 
right was an immense bonnet or hat which hid half the 
audience from me. Late in the evening it moved, and 
I saw beyond it a face which has haunted me ever 
since. It was that of a young and beautiful girl, who I 
instinctively felt belonged to a type entirely different 
from the class of girls whom I had known while at Har- 
vard, and who, without being exactly fast in the worst 
acceptation of the term, had come so near the boundary- 
line between propriety and impropriety that it was dif- 
ficult to tell on which side they stood. But this girl was 
different, with her deep-blue eyes and her wavy hair 
which I was sure had never come in contact with the 
hot curling-tongs, as Thea’s does, while her complex- 
ion, which reminded me of the roses and lilies in Aunt 
Keziah’s garden, owed none of its brilliancy to cosmet- 
ics, as Aleck says most complexions do. She was real, 
and inexpressibly lovely, especially when she smiled, as 
she sometimes did upon the lady who sat beside her, 
and who might have been her mother, or her chaperon, 
or some elderly relative. When the concert was over I 
hurried out, hoping to get near her, but she was lost in 
the crowd, and I only saw her once again, three weeks 
later, in an open street-car going in the opposite direc- 
tion from the one in which I was seated. In her hand 
she held a paper parcel, which made me think she might 
possibly be a seamstress or a saleslady, and I spent a 
great deal of time haunting the establishments in Boston 
which employed girls as clerks, but I never found her, 
nor heard of her. She certainly was not at Moisiere’s, 


ALECK AND THEA. 


273 


and I don’t think she was at Wellesley, as I am sure I 
should have heard of her through Fred, who had a sister 
there. Once I thought I would tell him about her, but 
was kept from doing so by a wish to discover her myself, 
and when discovered to keep her to myself. But I have 
never seen her since the day she went riding so serenely 
past me, unconscious of the admiration and strange 
emotions she was exciting in me. Who was she, I won- 
der ; and shall I ever see her again ? It is not likely ; 
and if I do, what can it matter to me, now that I am 
engaged to Thea ? 

In her letter of congratulation Aunt Keziah, who was 
wild with delight, wrote to me that nothing could make 
her so happy as my marriage with Thea, and that she 
knew I would keep my promise, no matter whom I 
might meet, for no one of Morton blood ever proved 
untrue to the woman he loved. Of course I shall prove 
true ; and who is there to meet, unless it is my Lost 
Star, as I call her, for whom I believe I am as persist- 
ently searching as Aleck is for the missing link, for I 
never see a group of young American girls that I do 
not manage to get near enough to see if she is among 
them, and I never see a head of chestnut-brown hair set 
on shoulders just as hers was that I don’t follow it until 
I see the face, which as yet has not been hers. And in 
this I am not disloyal to Thea, whom I love better than 
any girl I have ever known, and whom I will make 
happy, if possible. She has been ill now nearly four 
weeks, but in a few days we hope to move on to Paris, 
where we shall stay until June, then go to Switzerland, 
and some time in the autumn sail for home, and the 
aunts who have vied with each other in spoiling me and 
are the dearest aunts in the world, although so unlike 


274 : 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 

each other, — Aunt Keziah, with her iron will but really 
kind heart, Aunt Dizzy, with her invalid airs and pretty 
youthful ways which suit her so well in spite of her 
years, and Aunt Brier, whose name is a misnomer, she 
is so soft and gentle, with nothing scratchy about her, 
and who has such a sad, sweet face, with a look in her 
brown eyes as if she were always waiting or listening 
for something. I believe she has a history, and that it 
is in some way connected with that queer chap, Bey 
Atkins they called him, whose dress was half Oriental 
and half European, and whom I met at Shepheard’s in 
Cairo. I first saw him the night after our return from 
the trip up the Nile. He registered just after I had 
written the names of our party, at which he looked a 
long time, and then fairly shadowed me until he had a 
chance to speak to me alone. It was after dinner, and 
we were sitting near each other in front of the hotel, 
when he began to talk to me, and in an inconceivably 
short space of time had learned who I was, and where 
I lived, and about my aunts, in whom he seemed so 
greatly interested, especially Aunt Brier, that I finally 
asked if he had ever been to Morton Park. 

“Yes,” he answered, knocking the ashes from his 
cigar and leaning back in the bamboo chair in the 
graceful, lounging way he has, — “ yes, years ago I was 
in Versailles and visited at Morton Park. Your aunt 
Beriah and I were great friends. Tell her when you 
go home that you saw Tom Atkins in Cairo, and that 
he has become a kind of wandering Ishmael and wears 

a red fez and white flannel suit. Tell her, too ” but 

here he stopped suddenly, and, rising, went into the 
street, where his dragoman was holding the white 


DORIS AND THE GLORY HOLE. 


275 


donkey he always rode, sometimes alone and sometimes 
with a little girl beside him, who called him father. 

Of course, then, he is married, and his wife must be 
an Arab, for the child was certainly of that race, with 
her great dark eyes and her tawny hair all in a tangle. 
T meant to ask him about her, but when next day I 
inquired for him, I was told that he had gone to his 
home near Alexandria, where, I dare say, there is a 
host of little Arabs, and a woman with a veil stretched 
across her nose, whom he calls his wife. 

Alas for Aunt Brier if my conjecture is right ! 


CHAPTER V. — Beriah’s Story. 

DORIS AND THE GLORY HOLE. 

It is a long time since I have opened my journal, for 
there is so little to record. Life at Morton Park goes 
on in the same monotonous routine, with no change 
except of servants, of which we have had a sufficiency 
ever since the negroes became “ ekels,” as our last im- 
portation from Louisville, who rejoiced in the high- 
sounding name of Helena Maude, informed us they 
were. Such things make Keziah furious, for she is a 
regular fire-eater, but I shall admit their equality pro- 
vided they spare my best bonnet and do not insist upon 
putting their knives into our butter. Helena Maude is 
a pretty good girl, and when some of her friends come 
to the front door and ask if Miss Smithson lives here I 
t.ell them yes, and send them round to the cabins and 


276 


THE HETBCRN LINE. 


say nothing to Keziah, who for the last few weeks has 
been wholly absorbed in other matters than colored 
gentry. 

Doris is coming home to-morrow, and just the 
thought of it makes me so nervous with gladness that I 
can scarcely write legibly. I think it was a struggle for 
Keziah to consent to her coming, and she only did so 
after she heard Grant was engaged to Dorothea. I 
never saw Keziah as happy as she was upon the receipt 
of Grant’s letter, for his marriage with Dorothea means 
keeping our old home, and she allowed Helena Maude 
to whistle “ Marching Through Georgia” as she cleared 
the table, and did not reprove her. It was soon after 
this that she announced her intention to bring Doris to 
Morton Park after her graduation, and that night Dizzy 
and I held a kind of jubilee in our sitting-room, we were 
so glad that at last Gerold’s daughter was coming to 
her father’s old home. 

We need-young blood here to keep us from stagnat- 
ing, and although Grantley will be with us in the autumn, 
and possibly Dorothea, we know what they are, and are 
anxious for something new and fresh and pretty like 
Doris. I have a photograph of her, and it stands before 
me as I write, a picture of a wondrously beautiful 
young girl, with great earnest eyes confronting mine 
so steadfastly, and masses of soft, natural curls all over 
her head after the fashion of the present day. I know 
they are natural, although Keziah says they are the re- 
sult of hot tongs, and that she shall stop it at once, for 
she will not have the gas turned on half the time 
while the irons are heating. That is Dorothea’s style ; 
but she is in the Hepburn line, and is to marry Grant, 
which makes a difference, 


t)ORlS AND THE GLOKY HOLE. 


2 ?? 


Doris sent such a nice letter to Keziah, asking pardon 
for the saucy things she wrote to her years ago, and 
begging that some one of us would come to see her 
graduated. How I wanted to go ! but Keziah said we 
could not afford it, as she intended buying a new up- 
right Steinway in place of the old spindle-legged thing 
on which she used to thrum when a girl. We have 
heard that Doris is a fine musician, but Keziah will not 
admit that the piano was bought for her. Dorothea 
will visit us in the autumn, she says, and she wishes to 
make it as pleasant as possible for her. Dizzy and I 
both know what Dorothea’s playing is like, and that it 
does not matter much whether it is on a Steinway or a 
tin pan, but we are glad for something modern in our 
ancient drawing-room, where every article of furniture 
is nearly as old as I am, and where the new Steinway is 
now standing with one of Keziah ’s shawls thrown over 
it to keep it from the dust. 

For once in our lives Dizzy and I have waged a 
fierce battle with Keziah, who came off victor as usual. 
The battle was over Doris’s room, which Keziah thinks 
is of little consequence. Looking at our house from 
the outside, one would say it was large enough to ac- 
commodate a dozen school-girls ; but looks are decep- 
tive, and it seems it can hardly accommodate one. 
There is a broad piazza in front, and through the centre 
a long and wide hall, after the fashion of most Southern 
houses. On the south side of the hall are the drawing- 
room and sitting-room, with fireplaces in each. On the 
north side are the dining-room and Keziah ’s sleeping- 
room, where she usually sits and receives her intimate 
friends. On the floor above are also four rooms, — 
Dizzy’s and mine, which open together on the north side 


THE HEPBURN tlNti. 


m 

of the hali, and on the other side Grantley‘s, and the 
guest-room, which has not been occupied in fifteen years, 
for when Dorothea is here she has always had a cot in 
my room or Dizzy’s. At the end of the hall is a small 
room, ten by twelve perhaps, and communicating with 
the guest-chamber, for which it was orginally intended 
as a dressing-room, but which we use as a store-room 
for a most heterogeneous mass of rubbish, such as 
broken chairs and stands and trunks and chests, and old 
clothes and warming-pans and water-bags and Grant- 
ley’s fishing-tackle. The Glory Hole, we call it, though 
what the name has to do with the room I have no idea. 
There is a tradition that Gerold, when he first looked 
into it, exclaimed, “ Oh, glory, what a hole !” and hence 
the name, which clung to it even after it was cleared of 
its rubbish for him, for he once occupied it when a little 
boy, and now it is to be his daughter’s. 

Dizzy and I pleaded for the large guest-chamber, but 
Keziah said that was reserved for Dorothea who, as an 
engaged young lady, was too old to sleep in a cot. And 
nothing we could say was of any avail to turn her from 
her purpose. The Glory Hole was good enough for 
the daughter of a cook, she said, and so the room has 
been emptied of its contents, and, except that it is so 
small, it is quite presentable, with its matting and mus- 
lin hangings and willow chair and table by the window, 
under which there is a box of flowers, as one often sees 
in London. Just where she will put her trunk or hang 
her dresses I don’t know, — possibly in my closet, which 
is large enough for us both. She will be here to-mor- 
row afternoon, and Keziah is nearly ill with dread of 
her coming, and worrying as to what she will be like, 
and whether she will bring a banjo, and worst of all, if 


£>oriS And >thE glory hole. 270 

she will want to ride a bicycle ! This bicycle-riding is 
in Kizzy’s mind the most disreputable thing a woman 
can do, and the sight of a girl on a wheel, or a boy 
either, for that matter, is like a red flag to a bull, 
especially since the riders have taken to the sidewalks. 
She will never turn out, she declares, and I have seen 
her stand like a rock and face the enemy bearing flown 
upon her, and once she raised her umbrella with a hiss 
and a shoo, as if she were scaring chickens. I dare say 
Thea will have one as soon as she lands in America, 
but for Doris there are no bicycles, or banjoes, or hot 
irons, — nothing but the Glory Hole. Poor little Doris ! 

I hope she will be happy with us, and I know I am 
glad because she is coming. So few have ever come 
home to make me glad, and the one who could make 
me the gladdest will never come again, for somewhere 
in the wide world the sun is shining on his grave, I am 
sure, or he would come back to me, and I should bid 
him stay, or rather go with him, whether to the sands of 
Arabia or to the shores of the Arctic Sea. My hair is 
growing gray, the bloom has faded from my cheek, and 
I shall be forty-four my next birthday, and it is 
twenty-four years since I saw Tom ; but a woman’s 
love at forty-four is just as strong, I think, as a girl’s 
at twenty, and there is scarcely a night that I do not 
hear in my dreams the peculiar whistle with which he 
used to summon me to our trysting-place after Kizzy 
had forbidden him the house, and I see again his great, 
dark eyes full of entreaty and love, and hear his voice 
urging me to do what, if it were to do over again, I 
would do. That is an oddly-worded sentence ; but I 
am too tired to change it, and will close my journal 
until after I have seen Doris. 


m 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


CHAPTER VI.— Doris’s Story. 

MORTON PARK. 

I have been here four weeks, and begin to feel quite 
like the daughter of the house, with some exceptions. 
I am in love with Aunt Beriah, very intimate with 
Aunt Desire, and not as much in awe of Aunt Keziah 
as I was at first. It was a lovely afternoon when the 
coach from Frankfort set me down at the gate to the 
Morton grounds, where a little, brown-eyed, brown- 
haired lady was waiting for me. She had one of the 
sweetest faces I ever saw, and one of the sweetest 
voices, too, as she came towards me, holding out both 
her soft white hands, and saying to me, “ I am sure you 
are Doris, and I am your aunt Beriah. Welcome to 
Morton Park !” 

It was not so much what she said as the way she said 
it, which stirred me so strangely. It was the first word 
of affection I had heard from my own kin since my 
mother died, and, taking her hands in mine, I kissed 
them passionately, and cried like a child. I think she 
cried a little, too, but am not sure. I only know that 
she put her arm around my neck and said, soothingly, 
“There, there, dear. Don’t cry, when I am so glad.” 

Then taking my bag and umbrella, she gave them to 
a colored girl, whom she called Vine, and who, after 
bobbing me a courtesy, disappeared through the gate- 
way. 

“ It is not far, and I thought you would like to walk,” 
Aunt Brier said, leading the way, while I followed her 


MoRTOjtf RaRR, 


§81 


into the park, at the rear of which stood the house, with 
its white walls and Corinthian pillars, looking so cool 
and pleasant in the midst of grass and flowers and 
maples and elms, with an immense hawthorn-tree in 
full bloom. 

“ Oh, this is lovely, and just as papa told me it was,” 

I exclaimed, and then, stopping short, Aunt Brier drew 
me close to her, and scrutinizing me earnestly, said, 
with a tremor in her voice, “ Yes, Gerold told you of his 
old home. I was so fond of him. We were like brother 
and sister, and I was so sorry when he died. You are 
not as much like him as I fancied you were from your 
photograph.” 

“ No ?” I said, interrogatively, wondering if she were 
disappointed in me ; but she soon set me right on that 
point by saying, “ Gerold was good-looking, but you 
are beautiful.” 

I had been told that so often, and I knew it so well 
without being told, that I did not feel at all elated. I 
was only glad that she liked my looks, and replied, 

II And you are lovely, and so young, too. My great 
aunt ought to look older.” 

She smiled at that, and said, “ I am nearly forty- 
four, and feel sometimes as if I were a hundred. But 
there is Kizzy on the piazza. I think we’d better hurry. 
She does not like to wait for anything.” 

I had never really known what fear of any person 
was, but I felt it now, and my heart beat violently as I 
hastened my steps towards the spot where Aunt Keziah 
stood, stiff and tall and straight, and looking very im- 
posing in her black silk gown and lace cap set on a 
smooth band of false hair, a bunch of keys dangling at 
her belt, and a dainty hemstitched handkerchief clasped 


282 


THE HEEHURN tlttti. 


in her hands. In spite of her sixty odd years, she wa§ 
a handsome woman to look at, with her shoulders 
thrown back and her chin in the air as if she were on 
the alert and the defensive. Her features were clearly 
cut, her face smooth and pale, while her bright black 
eyes seemed to look me through as they traveled rapidly 
from my hat to my boots and back again, evidently 
taking in every detail of my dress, and resting finally 
on my face with what seemed to be disapproval. 

“ How do you do, Miss Doris ?” she said, with a quick 
shutting together of her thin lips, and without the 
shadow of a smile. 

I had cried when Aunt Brier spoke to me, but I did 
not want to cry now, for something of the woman’s na- 
ture must have communicated itself to mine and frozen 
me into a figure as hard and stiff as she w r as. It was a 
trick of mine to imitate any motion or gesture which 
struck me forcibly, and I involuntarily threw my shoul- 
ders back and my chin in the air, and gave her two fin- 
gers just as she had given me, and told her I was quite 
well, and hoped she was the same. For a moment she 
looked at me curiously, while it seemed to me that her 
features did relax a little as she asked if I were not very 
tired with the journey and the dusty ride in the coach 
from Frankfort. 

“ It always upsets me,” she said, suggesting that I go 
at once to my room and rest until dinner, which would 
be served sharp at six, “ and,” she added, “ we never 
wait for meals ; breakfast at half-past seven in the sum- 
mer, lunch at half-past twelve, dinner at six.” 

Then she made a stately bow, and I felt that I was 
dismissed from her presence, and started to follow 
Aunt Beriah into the hall just as two negroes came up 


MORTON PARK. 28$ 

tbe walk bringing one' of my trunks, which had been 
deposited at the entrance to the park. 

“ Mass’r Hinton’s man done fotchin’ t’other trunk on 
his barrer,” the taller negro said, in response to a look of 
inquiry he must have seen on my face, and instantly 
Aunt Kizzy’s lips came together just as they had done 
when she said, “ How do you do, Miss Doris ?” 

“Two trunks?” she asked, in a tone which told me 
that I had brought altogether too much luggage. 

“Yes,” I replied, stopping until the negroes came up 
the steps. “ Perhaps I ought to have brought but one, 
but I have so many books and things, and, besides, one 
trunk was father’s and ’one mother’s, and I could not 
give either up. This was father s, which he said you 
gave him when he went to college. See> here is his 
name.” And I pointed to “Gerald Morton, Versailles, 
Ky.,” on the end of the stout leather trunk, which had 
withstood the wear of years. 

“ Yes, I remember it,” she said, in a voice so changed 
and with so different an expression on her face that I 
scarcely knew her as she bent over the trunk, which she 
touched caressingly with her hand. “ You have kept it 
well,” she continued ; then, to the negroes, “ Take it up- 
stairs, and mind you don’t mar the wall nor the ban- 
isters. Look sharp, now.” 

“ Mass’r Hinton’s man ” had arrived with the wheel- 
barrow and the other trunk, a huge Saratoga, with 
mother’s name upon it, “ Doris Morton, New Haven, 
Ct.,” but this Aunt Keziah did not touch. Indeed, it 
seemed to me that she recoiled from it, and there was 
an added severity in her tone as she told the man to be 
careful, and chided him for cutting up the gravel with 
the wheelbarrow. 


284 




“ I’s couldn’t tote it, missis ; it’s too heavy,” he said, 
as he waited for one of the other blacks to help him 
take it up the stairs. 

I had reached the upper hall and was standing by the 
door of my room, while Aunt Beriah said, apologet- 
ically, “ I am sorry it is so small : perhaps we can 
change it bye-and-bye.” 

It was really a very pretty room, but quite too small 
for my trunks unless I moved out either the bedstead, 
or the bureau, or the washstand, and, as I could not 
well dispense with either of these, I looked rather rue- 
fully at my aunt, who said, “ There is a big closet in my 
room where you can hang your dresses and put both 
your trunks when they are unpacked.” And that was 
where I did put them, but not until after two days, for 
I awoke the next morning with the worst headache I 
ever had in my life, and which, I suppose, was induced 
by the long and rapid journey from Meadowbrook, 
added to homesickness and crying myself to sleep. I 
could not even sit up, and was compelled to keep my 
room, where Aunt Beriah nursed me so tenderly and 
lovingly, while Aunt Kizzy came three times a day to 
ask how I was, and where I first saw my aunt Desire, 
who had been suffering with neuralgia and was not 
present at dinner on the night of my arrival. She sent 
me her love, however, and the next day came into my 
room, languid and graceful, with a pretty air of invalid- 
ism about her, and a good deal of powder on her face, 
reminding me of a beautiful ball-dress which has done 
service through several seasons and been turned 
and made over and freshened up until it looks almost 
as well as new. Her dress, of some soft, cream -colored 
material was artistically draped around her fine figure 


MORTON PARK. 


2S5 


and fastened on the left side with a ribbon bow of baby 
blue, and her fair hair, in which there was very little 
gray, was worn low on her neck in a large, flat knot, 
from which a few curls were escaping and adding to her 
youthful appearance. If I had not known that she was 
over fifty, I might, in my darkened room, easily have 
mistaken her for a young girl, and I told her so when 
after kissing me and telling me who she was, she sank 
into the rocking-chair and asked me if she looked at all 
as I thought she would. 

With a merry laugh, which showed her white, even 
teeth, she said, “ I like that. I like to look young, if I 
am fifty, which I will confess to you just because Kizzy 
will be sure to tell you ; otherwise, torture could not 
wring it from me. A woman is as old as she feels, and 
I feel about twenty-five. Nor do I think it is necessary 
to blurt out my age all the time, as Kizzy does. It’s no 
crime to be old, but public opinion and women them- 
selves have made it so. Let two of them get to saying 
nasty things about a third, and they are sure to add 
several years to her age, while even men call a girl right 
old before she is thirty, and doesn’t that prove that 
although age may be honorable it is not desirable, and 
should be fought against as long as possible ? And I 
intend to fight it, too, and thus far have succeeded 
pretty well, or should, if it were not for Kizzy, who 
has the most aggravating way of saying to me, ‘You 
ought not to do so at your time of life,’ and ‘at your 
age,’ as if I were a hundred.” 

I listened to her in amazement and admiration too. 
She was so pretty and graceful and earnest that al- 
though I thought her rather silly, and wished that in 
her fight against time she did not make up quite so 


286 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


much as I knew she did, I was greatly drawn towards 
her, and for a while forgot my headache as she told me 
of her ailments, which were legion, and with which 
Aunt Kizzy had little sympathy. “ Kizzy thinks all one 
has to do is to exercise his will and make an effort, as 
Mrs. Chick insisted poor Fanny should do in ‘ Dombey 
and Son,’ ” she said, and then went on to give me 
glimpses of their family life and bits of family history, 
all of which were, of course, very interesting to me. 
Aunt Brier, I heard, had been engaged, when young, to 
a very fine young man, but Aunt Kizzy broke up the 
snatch because she wished Beriah to marry some one in 
the Hepburn line, which was frightfully tangled up 
with the Morton line. 

“ It would take too long to explain the tangle,” she 
said, “ and so I shall not try. It estranged your father 
from us, and his father before him, because each took 
the woman of his choice in spite of the line.” 

Then she told me of her own dead love, to whose 
memory she had been faithful thirty years, and who so 
often visited her in her dreams that he was as much a 
reality now as the day he died. 

“And that is why I try to keep young, for where he 
has gone they know no lapse of time, and if he can see 
me, as I believe he can, I do not want to look old to 
him,” she said, with a pathetic sob, while her white 
hands worked nervously. 

Then she told me that I was in the Glorjr Hole, which 
my father had so named, and told me, too, that she and 
Beriah had fought for the larger room, but had given 
in to Kizzy, as they always did. 

“ I believe she has an invisible cat-o’-nine-tails which 
makes us all afraid of her,” she added j “ but, really, 


MORTON PARK. 


287 


when you get down to the kernel it is good as gold, and 
you can get there if you try, Don’t seem afraid of her, 
or fond of her, either. She hates gush, and she hates 
cowardice and deceit ; but she adores manner and eti- 
quette as she knew it forty years ago, and dislikes every- 
thing modern and new.” 

She did not tell me all this at one sitting, for she 
came to see me twice during the two days I kept my 
bed, and at each visit told me so much that I felt pretty 
well informed with regard to the family history, and 
began to lose my dread of Aunt Keziah and to feel less 
nervous when I heard her quick step and sharp voice 
in the hall. I knew she meant to be kind, and knew, too, 
that she was watching me curiously and trying to make 
up her mind as to what manner of creature I was, and 
whether I was feigning sickness or nor. As she had 
never had a hard headache in her life, she did not know 
how to sympathize with one who had, and at the close 
of the second day she made me understand that mine 
had lasted long enough and that all I required now was 
an effort and fresh air, and that she should expect me 
down to breakfast the next morning. And as I was 
better, I made the effort, and at precisely half-past 
seven followed my three aunts down the stairs in a me- 
thodical, military kind of way, which reminded me of 
the school in Meadowbrook, where we used to march to 
the sound of a drum and a leader’s call of “ Left, right ; 
left, right,” Aunt Kizzy in this case being the leader 
and putting her foot down with an energy which 
marked all her movements. 

The table was laid with great care, and Aunt Keziah 
said grace with her eyes open and upon black Tom, who 
was slyly purloining a lump of sugar from the bowl oq 


238 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


the sideboard, and who nearly choked himself in his ef- 
forts to swallow it in time for his Amen, which was very 
audible and made me laugh in spite of my fear of Aunt 
Kizzy. When breakfast was over I was invited into her 
room, where I underwent a rigid cross-examination as 
to what I had learned at school, as well as done and left 
undone. I was also told what I could do and not do at 
Morton Park. There was a new Stein way in the 
drawing-room, on which I could practice each day from 
nine to ten and from three to four, but at no other time 
unless specially invited. Nor was I to sing unless asked 
to do so, while humming to myself was out of the ques- 
tion, as something very reprehensible. I was never to 
cross my feet when I sat down, nor lean back in my 
chair, nor put my hands upon the table, and above all 
things she hoped I did not whistle, and had not acquired 
a taste for banjoes and bicycles, as she heard some 
young ladies had. 

With her sharp eyes upon me I was forced to confess 
that I could whistle a little and play the banjo, and 
had only been kept from buying one by lack of 
means, and also that when in Meadowbrook I had tried 
to ride a wheel. 

“ A Morton on a wheel and playing a banjo !” she 
exclaimed, in horror. “Surely, surely, you did not in- 
herit this low taste from your father’s family. It is 
not the Morton blood which whistles and rides on 
wheels. It is your “ 

Something in my face must have checked her, for she 
stopped suddenly and stared at me, while I said, 
“Aunt Kizzy, I know you mean my mother, and I want 
to tell you now that in every respect she was my 
father’s equal, and was the sweetest ? loveliest woman I 


MORTON PARK. 


289 


ever saw, and my father was so fond of her. I know 
you were angry because he married her, and you were 
very unjust to her, but she never said a word against 
you, and now she is dead I will hear nothing against 
her. She was my mother, and I am more like her than 
like the Mortons, and I am glad of it.” 

This was not very respectful language, I knew, and I 
half expected her to box my ears, but she did nothing 
of the kind, and it seemed to me as if her expression 
softened towards me as she went on asking questions 
about other and different matters, and finally dismissed 
me with the advice that I should lie down awhile, as I 
looked pale and tired. That was four weeks ago, and 
since that time I have learned to know her better, and 
have found many good points which I admire. She has 
never mentioned my mother to me since that day, but 
has asked me many questions about my father and our 
home in Meadowbrook. In most things, too, I have my 
own way and am very happy, for Aunt Keziah has with- 
drawn some of her restrictions. I practice now when I 
like, and sing when I please, and even hum a little to 
myself, and once, when she was gone, I whistled “ Annie 
Rooney ” to my own accompaniment, with Aunts Dizzy 
and Brier for audience. I have seen a good many of the 
Versailles people, and have had compliments enough 
on my beauty to turn any girl’s head. I have learned 
every nook and corner of the house and park, and be- 
come quite attached to my Glory Hole, which I really 
prefer to the great room adjoining it, with its high-post 
bedstead and canopy, and its stiff mahogany furniture, 
which Aunt Kizzy says is nearly a hundred years old. 

It looks a thousand, as does the furniture in the next 
room beyond, which puzzles me a little, it smells so like 


290 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


a man, and a young man, too. By this I mean that 
there is in it a decided odor of tobacco and cigars, and 
the leather-covered easy-chair looks to me as if some 
man had often lounged in it, while I know there are a 
smoking-jacket and a pair of men’s slippers there. 

Funny that such things should be in this house of the 
Vestal Virgins, as I call them, and v bye-and-bye I shall 
get to be one, I suppose, and tend the sacred fires, and 
goon errands of mercy, unless, indeed, I fall in love and 
am buried alive, as were the erring Vestals of old, which 
God forbid. 

I wish that room did not bother me as it does. I 
think it is kept locked most of the time, but two days 
ago I saw Rache cleaning it, and walked in, as a matter 
of course, and smelled the cigars, and saw the jacket 
and the slippers in the closet, and asked Rache whose 
room it was. She stammers a little, and I could not 
quite make out what she said ; and just as I was going 
to repeat my question Aunt Kizzy appeared and with a 
gesture of her hand waived me from the room, which 
remains to me as much a mystery as ever. I could, of 
course, ask one or all of my aunts about it, but by some 
intuition I seem to know that they do not care to talk 
about it Indeed, I have felt ever since I have been here 
that there is something they are keeping from me, and 
I believe it is connected with this room, which may 
have been my father’s, or grandfather’s, or great-grand- 
father’s, although the smell is very much like the cigars 
of the Harvard boys, and that smoking-jacket had a 
modern look. But, whatever the mystery is, I mean in 
time to find it out. 


A SOLILOQUY. 


291 


CHAPTER VII. — Keziah’s Story 

A SOLILOQUY. 

Doris is here, and has been for four weeks, and in 
spite of myself I am drawn to her more and more every 
day. I did not want her to come, and I meant to be 
cold and distant to her, but when she looked at me with 
something in her blue eyes like Gerold, I began to 
soften, while the sight of Gerold’s trunk unnerved me 
wholly. I gave it to him when he first went away to 
college, and I remember so well how pleased he was, 
and how he put his arms around me and kissed me, as 
he thanked me for it, and said, “Auntie, the trunk is so 
big that I shall not bring it home at my vacations, but 
leave it in New Haven. So when you see it again it 
will be full of honors, and I shall be an A. B., of whom 
you will be so proud.” 

God forgive me if I have done wrong ; that was 
twenty-five years ago, and Gerold is dead, and his trunk 
was brought back to me by his daughter, whose face is 
not his face, although very, very beautiful. I acknowl- 
edge that to myself, and rebel against it a little, as I 
mentally contrast it with- Dorothea’s and wonder what 
Grant will think of it. I have surely done well to keep 
him from all knowledge of her until he was engaged to 
Dorothea, and even now I tremble a little for the result 
when he is thrown in contact with her every day, for 
aside from her wonderful beauty there is a grace and 
charm about her that Dorothea lacks, and had I seen 
her before she came here I should have kept her at the 


292 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


North until after Grant’s marriage, which I mean shall 
take place as early as Christmas. 

He is coming home sooner than I expected ; indeed 
he sails in two or three days, and I must tell her at 
once that she has a cousin, and in some way put her on 
her honor not to try to attract him. It is a difficult thing 
to do, for the girl has a spirit of her own, and there is 
sometimes a flash in her eyes which I do not like to 
meet. I saw it first when I said something derogatory 
of her mother. How her eyes blazed, and how grand 
she was in her defense, and how I respected her for it ! 

Ah me, that Hepburn lease ! What mischief it has 
wrought, and how the ghosts of the past haunt me at 
times, when I remember the stand I have taken to save 
our house from ruin ! Beriah says I am a monomaniac 
on the subject, and also that she doubts the validity of 
the lease. But that does not matter. My father bade 
me respect Amos Hepburn’s wishes, and I shall, to the 
letter, if Grant does not marry Dorothea. 

I must stop now and superintend the opening of a 
box which by some mistake Grant left at Cambridge and 
did not think necessary to have forwarded to us until 
recently, when he gave orders to have it sent us by 
express. It has in it a little of everything, he wrote, 
and among the rest a picture which he thinks will in- 
terest and puzzle us as it has him. I hear Tom ham- 
mering at the box, and must go and see to it. 


Mr COUSIN GRANTLEY. 


293 


CHAPTER VIII —Doris’s Story. 

MY COUSIN GRANTLEY. 

I have solved the mystery of that room with the 
smell of cigars and the smoking-jacket. It does belong 
to a man, and that man is Grantley Montague, and 
Grantley Montague is my second cousin. Aunt Kizzy 
told me all about him this morning, and I am still so 
dazed and bewildered and glad and indignant that I can 
scarcely write connectedly about it. Why was the 
knowledge that Grant was my cousin kept from me so 
long, and from him, too, as he is still as ignorant as I 
was a few hours ago ? Aunt Kizzy’s explanation was 
very lame. She said if he had known that he had a 
cousin at Wellesley when he was in Harvard, nothing 
could have kept him from seeing me so often that we 
should both have been interrupted in our studies, — that 
she did not approve of students visiting the girls while 
they were in school, — and that she hardly knew why 
she did not tell me as soon as I came here. This was 
not very satisfactory, and I believe there is something 
behind ; but when I appealed to Aunts Dizzy and 
Beriah, and said I was hurt and angry, Aunt Brier did 
not answer at all, but Aunt Dizzy said, “ I don’t blame 
you, and I’d have told you long ago if I had not been 
so afraid of Kizzy and that is all I could get from 
her. 

But I know now that Grant is my cousin ; and this is 
how it happened. This morning, as I was crossing the 
back piazza, I saw Tom opening a box which had come 


294 


THIS tlELBLTfcN LINE. 


by express and which Aunt Kizzy was superintending. 
Taking a seat on the side piazza, I thought no more 
about it until I heard Aunt Kizzy say, very hurriedly 
and excitedly, “ Go, boy, and call Miss Desire and Miss 
Beriah, — quick,” and a moment after I heard them both 
exclaim, and caught the sound of my father’s name, Ger- 
old. Then I arose, and, going around the corner, saw 
them bending over a picture which I recognized at once, 
and in a moment I was kneeling by it and kissing it as I 
would have kissed my father’s hand had it suddenly 
been reached to me. 

“ Oh, the picture !” I cried. “ It is my father’s ; he 
painted it. I saw him do it. He said it was a picture 
of his aunties, and this is himself. Dear father !” 
And I touched the face of the young man who was 
standing behind the woman with the baby in her lap. 

Aunt Kizzy was very white,* and her voice shook as 
she asked me to explain, which I did rapidly and clearly, 
telling all I knew of the picture, which had been sold 
to some gentleman from Boston for fifty dollars. 

“ And,” I added, “ that fifty dollars went to pay his 
funeral expenses, poor dear father. He was ill so 
long, and we were so poor.” 

I was crying, and in fact we were all crying together, 
Aunt Kizzy the hardest of all, so that the hemstitched 
handkerchief she always carried so gingerly was quite 
moist and limp. I was the first to recover myself, and 
asked : 

“ How did it get here ? Whose box is this ?” 

“ Our nephew’s, Grantley Montague, who was grad- 
uated at Harvard last year and is now in Europe. He 
left this box in Cambridge by mistake, and it was not 
sent to us until yesterday. We are expecting him 


MY COUSIN GRANTLEY. 


m 


home in a short time. He must have bought the pic- 
ture for its resemblance to us, although he could not 
have known that it was painted for us.” 

It was Aunt Kizzy who told me this very rapidly, as 
if anxious to get it off her mind, and I noticed that she 
did not look at me as she spok.e, and that she seemed 
embarrassed and anxious to avoid my gaze. 

“ Grantley Montague, — your nephew ! Then he is 
my cousin !” I exclaimed, while every particular con- 
nected with the young man came back to me, and none 
more distinctly than the telegram, No, sent in response 
to my request that I might attend his tea-party. 

I know that my eyes were flashing as they confronted 
Aunt Kizzy, who stammered out : 

“Your second cousin, — yes. Did you happen to see 
him while at Wellesley ?” 

She was trying to be very cool, but I was terribly ex- 
cited, and, losing all fear of her, replied : 

“ No ; you . took good care that I should meet no Har- 
vard boys ; but I saw Grantley Montague once on the 
train, and I heard so much about him, but I never 
dreamed he was my cousin. If I had, nothing would 
have kept me from him. Did he know I was there ?” 

“ He knows nothing of you whatever,” Aunt Kizzy 
said. “ I did not think it best he should as it might 
have interfered with the studies of you both. He is 
coming soon, and you will of course make his acquaint- 
ance.” 

I was sitting upon the box and crying bitterly, not 
only for the humiliation and injustice done to me, but 
from a sense of all I had lost by not knowing that 
Grantley was my cousin. 

“ Why didn’t you tell me ?” I said, when she asked 


296 


THE HEPBURN LlNEi 


why I Cried, “ It would have made me so happy, and 1 
have been so lonely at times, with no one of my own 
blood to care for me, and I should have been so proud 
of him ; and when he invited me to his party, why 
didn’t you let me go ? I did everything to please you. 
You did nothing to please me !” 

I must have been hysterical, for my voice sounded 
very loud and unnatural as I reproached her, while she 
tried to soothe me and explain. But I would not be 
soothed, and kept on crying until I could cry no longer, 
and still, in the midst of my pain, I was conscious of a 
great joy welling up in my heart, as I reflected that 
Grantley was my cousin, and that I should soon see him 
in spite of Aunt Kizzy, who, I think, was really .sorry 
for me and did not resent what I said to her. She had 
me in her room for an hour after lunch, and tried to 
smooth the matter over. 

“ You are very pretty,” she said, “ and Grant is very 
susceptible to a pretty face, and if he had seen yours he 
might have paid you attentions which would have 
turned your head, and perhaps have done you harm 
as they would have meant nothing. They couldn’t 
mean anything ; they must mean nothing.” 

She was getting more and more excited, and began 
to walk the floor as she went on : 

“ I may as well tell you that I dread his coming. He 
is very magnetic, — with something about him which 
attracts every one. Your father had it, and your grand- 
father before him, and Grant has it, and you will be in- 
fluenced by it, but it must not be. Oh, why did I let 
you come here, with your fatal beauty, which is sure to 
work us evil ? or, having come, why are you not in the 
Hepburn line ?” 


tat COUSIN GRANTLEY. 


297 


1 thought she had gone crazy, and stared at her won- 
deringly as she continued : 

“ I can’t explain now what I mean, except that Grant 
must marry money, and you have none. You have only 
your beauty, which is sure to impress him, but it must 
not be. Promise me, Doris, to be discreet, and not try 
to attract him, — not try to win his love.” 

“Aunt Keziah ! What do you take me for!” lex- 
claimed, indignantly, and she replied : 

“ Forgive me ; I hardly know what I am saying ; 
only it must not be. You must not mar my scheme, 
though if you were in the line, I’d accept you so gladly 
as Grantley’s wife.” And then, to my utter amazement, 
she stooped aad kissed me, for the first time since I had 
known her. 

A great deal more she said to me, and when the inter- 
view was over, there was on my mind a confused im- 
pression that I was not to interfere with her plan of 
marrying Grantley to a rich wife, — Dorothea Haynes, 
probably, although no mention was made of her, — and 
also that I was to treat him very coldly and no-t in any 
way try to attract him. The idea was so ludicrous that 
after a little it rather amused than displeased me, but 
did not in the least lessen my desire to see the young 
man who had been the lion at Harvard, and whom I 
had seen in the car whistling an accompaniment to 
Dorothea’s banjo. 

I have told Aunts Desire and Beriah of that incident, 
and of nearly all I had heard with regard to Grantley 
and Dorothea, but the only comment the) 7 made was 
that they had known Miss Haynes since she was a child, 
that she had visited at Morton Park, and would proba- 
bly come there again in the autumn. Once I thought 


1298 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


to ask if she were engaged to Grantley, but the wall of 
reserve which they manage to throw about them when 
the occasion requires it, kept me silent, and I can only 
speculate upon it and anticipate the time when I shall 
stand face to face with Grantley Montague. 


CHAPTER IX. — The Author’s Story. 

GRANTLEY AND DORIS. 

It was one of those lovely summer days, neither too 
hot nor too cold, which sometimes occur in Kentucky 
even in August. The grounds at Morton Park were 
looking their best, for there had been a heavy shower 
the previous night, and since sunrise three negroes had 
been busy mowing and rolling and pruning and weed- 
ing until there was scarcely a twig or dead leaf to be 
seen upon the velvet lawn, while the air was sweet with 
the odor of the flowers in the beds and on the broad 
borders. Mas’r Grantley was expected home on the 
morrow, and that was incentive enough for the blacks 
to do their best, for the negroes worshiped their young 
master, who, while maintaining a proper dignity of 
manner, was always kind and considerate and even 
familiar with them to a certain extent. Within doors 
everything was also ready for the young man. Keziah 
had indulged in a new cap, Dizzy in a pretty tea-gown, 
while Beriah had spent her surplus money for a new fur 
rug for Grant’s room, which had been made very bright 
and attractive with the decorations which had come 


GRANTLEY AND DORIS. 


290 


With the picture in the box from Cambridge. As for 
Doris, she had nothing new, nor did she need anything, 
and she made a very pretty picture in her simple muslin 
dress and big garden-hat, when about four o’clock she 
took a book and sauntered down to a summer-house in 
the rear of the grounds, near the little gate which 
opened upon the turnpike and was seldom used except 
when some one of the family wished to go out that way 
to call upon a neighbor or meet the stage. 

Taking a seat in the arbor, Doris was soon so absorbed 
in her book as not to hear the stage from Frankfort 
when it stopped at the gate, or to see the tall young 
man with satchel in one hand and light walking-cane 
in the other who came up the walk at a rapid rate and 
quickened his steps when he caught a glimpse of a light 
dress among the green of the summer-house. Grantley, 
who had been spending a little time with Dorothea at 
Wilmot Terrace, which was a mile or more out of Cin- 
cinnati, had not intended to come home until the next 
day, but there had suddenly come over him an intense 
longing to see his aunts and the old place, which he 
could not resist, while, to say the truth, he was getting 
a little tired of constant companionship with Dorothea 
and wished to get away from her and rest. It was all 
very well, he said to himself, to be kissed and caressed 
and made much of by a nice girl for a while, but there 
was such a thing as too much of it, and a fellow would 
rather do some of the love-making himself. Dorothea 
was all right, of course, and he liked her better than 
any girl he had ever seen, although she was not his 
ideal, which he should never find. He had given that 
up, and the Lost Star did not now flit across his memory 
as often as formerly, although he had not forgotten her, 


BOO 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


and still saw at times the face which had shone upon 
him for a brief moment and then been lost, as he 
believed, forever. He was not, however, thinking of it 
now, when, wishing to surprise his aunts, he dismounted 
from the stage at the gate and came hurrying up the 
walk, — the short cut to the house. Catching sight of 
Doris’s dress, and thinking it was his aunt Desire, he 
called out in his loud, cheery voice, “ Hello, Aunt 
Dizzy ! You look just like a young girl in that blue 
gown and big hat with poppies on it. Are you glad to 
see me ?” 

In an instant Doris was on her feet and confronting 
him with the bright color staining her cheeks and a 
kindling light in her blue eyes as she went forward to 
meet him. She knew who it was, and, with a bright 
smile which made his heart beat rapidly, she offered 
him her hand and said, “ I am not your aunt Dizzy, but 
if you are Grantley Montague I am your cousin, Doris 
Morton, — Gerald Morton’s daughter, — and 1 am very 
glad to see you.” 

For the first time in his life Grantley’s speech forsook 
him. Here was his Lost Star, declaring herself to be 
his cousin ! What did it mean ? Dropping his satchel 
and taking off his soft hat, with which he fanned him- 
self furiously, he exclaimed, “ Great Scott ! My cousin 
Doris ! Gerold Morton’s daughter ! I don’t under- 
stand yon. I never knew he had a daughter, or much 
about him any way. Where have you kept yourself, 
that I have never seen or heard of you, and why 
haven’t my aunts told me of you ?” 

He had her hand in his, as he led her back to the 
summer- house, while she said to him. “ A part of the 
time I have been at Wellesley. I was there when you 


GRANTLEY AND DORIS. 


301 


were at Harvard, and used to hear a great deal of you, 
although I never dreamed you were my cousin till I 
came here.” 

This took his breath away, and, sitting down beside 
her, he plied her with questions until he knew all that 
she knew of her past and why they had been kept apart 
so long. 

“ By Jove, I don’t like it,” he said. “ Why, if I had 
known you were at Wellesley I should have spent half 
my time on the road between there and Harvard ” 

“And the other half between Harvard and Madame 
De Moisiere’s ?” Doris said, archly, as she moved a little 
from him, for he had a hand on her shoulder now. 

“ What do you mean ?” he asked, quickly, while 
something of the light faded from his eyes, and the 
eagerness from his voice. 

“ I heard a great deal about you from different 
sources, and about Miss Haynes, too ; and I once saw 
you with her in the train whistling an accompaniment 
to her banjo,” Doris replied. 

“The dickens you did !” Grant said, dropping Doris’s 
hand, which he had held so closely. 

It is a strange thing to say of an engaged young man 
that the mention of his betrothed was like a breath of 
cold wind chilling him suddenly, but it was so in Grant’s 
case. With the Lost Star sitting by him, he had for a 
moment forgotten Dorothea, whose farewell kiss was 
only a few hours old. 

“ The dickens you did ! Well, I suppose you thought 
me an idiot ; but what did you think of Dorothea ?” he 
asked, and Doris replied : 

“ I thought her very nice, and wished I might know 


302 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


her, for I felt sure I should like her. And she is coming 
to Morton Park in the autumn. Aunt Brier told me. 

“Yes, I believe she is to visit us then,” Grant said, 
without a great deal of enthusiasm, and then, changing 
the conversation, he began to ask about his aunts, and 
what Doris thought of them, and if she were happy with 
them, and when she first heard he was her cousin, and 
how. 

She told him of the box and the picture which had led 
to the disclosure, and which she had recognized at once. 

“ And your father was the artist !” he exclaimed. 
“ By Jove, that’s funny ! How things come round ! 
I found it in a dealer’s shop and bought it because it 
looked so much like my aunts, although I did not really 
suppose they were the originals, as I never remembered 
them as they are on the canvas. And that moon-faced 
baby was meant for me, was it ? What did you think 
of him ?” 

“ I didn’t think him very interesting,” Doris replied ; 
and then they both laughed, and said the pleasant 
nothings which two young people who are pleased with 
each other are apt to say, and on the strength of their 
cousinsliip became so confidential and familiar that at 
the end of half an hour Doris felt that she had - known 
Grant all her life, while he could scarcely have told how 
he did feel. 

Doris’s beauty, freshness, and vivacity, so different 
from what he had been accustomed to in the class of 
girls he had known, charmed and intoxicated him, 
while the fact that she was his cousin and the Lost Star 
bewildered and confused him ; and added to this was a 
feeling of indignation that he had so long been kept in 
ignorance of her existence. 


GRANTLEY AND DORIS. 


303 


“ I don’t like it in Aunt Kizzy, and I mean to tell her 
so,” he said, at last, as he rose to his feet, and, picking 
up his satchel, went striding up the walk towards the 
house, with Doris at his side. 

It was now nearly six o’clock, and Aunt Kizzy was 
adjusting her cap and giving sundry other touches to 
her toilet preparatory to dinner, when, glancing from 
her window, she saw the young couple as they emerged 
from a side path, Doris with her sun-hat in her hand 
and her hair blowing about her glowingface, which was 
lifted towards Grant, who was looking down at her and 
talking rapidly. Miss Kizzy knew Doris was pretty, 
but never had the girl’s beauty struck her as it did now, 
when she saw her with Grant and felt an indefinable 
foreboding that the Hepburn line was in danger. 

“ Doris is a flirt, and Grant is no better, and I’ll send 
for Dorothea at once. There is no need to wait until 
autumn,” she said to herself, as she went down stairs 
and out upon the piazza, where Beriah and Desire were 
already, for both had seen him from the parlor and had 
hurried out to meet him. 

“ Hello, hello, hello,” he said to each of the three 
aunts, as he kissed them affectionately. “ I know you 
didn’t expect me,” he continued, as, with the trio cling- 
ing to him and making much of him, he went into the 
house, — “ I know you didn’t expect me so soon, but the 
fact is I was homesick and wished to see you all and so 
I came. I hope you are glad. And, I say, why in the 
name of all that is good didn’t you ever tell me I had a 
cousin, — and at Wellesley, too ? And why did you never 
tell me more of Cousin Gerold, who, it seems, painted that 
picture of you all ? It’s awfully queer. Hello, Tom, how 


304 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


d’ye ?” he added, as a woolly head appeared in the door- 
way and a grinning negro answered : 

“Jes’ tol’able, thanky, Mas’r Grant. How d’ye you- 
self ?”• 

Keziah was evidently very glad of this diversion, 
which turned the conversation away from Doris, who 
had remained outside, with a feeling that for the pres- 
ent the aunts must have Grant to themselves. How 
handsome and bright and magnetic he was, and how 
gay he made the dinner with his jokes and merry 
laugh ! Once, however, it seemed to Doris that a 
shadow flitted across his face, and that was when Miss 
Keziah asked after Dorothea. 

“ Oh, she’s right well,” he answered, indifferently, 
and when his aunt continued : 

“ Didn’t she hate to have you leave so abruptly ?” he 
replied, laughingly : 

“ She paid me the compliment of saying so, but I 
reckon Aleck Grady will console her for awhile.” 

“ Who is Aleck Grady ?” Miss Morton asked, and 
Grant replied : 

“ Have I never written you about Aleck Grady ? A 
good fellow enough, but an awful bore, and a second 
cousin of Thea’s, who joined us in Egypt and has been 
with us ever since.” 

Beriah had heard of him, but Miss Morton could not 
recall him, and continued to ask questions about him as 
if she scented danger from him as well as from Doris. 
Was he in the Hepburn line and really Thea’s cousin, 
and did she like him ? 

At the mention of the Hepburn line Grant’s face 
clouded, and he answered rather stiffly : 

“ He is in the Hepburn line, one degree removed 


GRANTLEY AND DORIS. 


305 


from Thea, and he is hunting for a missing link, which, 
if found, will knock Thea into a cocked hat.” 

Miss Morton knew about the missing link herself ; 
indeed, she had once tried to trace it, but had given it up 
with the conviction that it was extinct, and if she 
thought so, why, then, it was so, and Aleck Grady would 
never find it. But he might be dangerous elsewhere, 
and she repeated her question as to whether Thea liked 
him or not. 

“ I dare say, — as her cousin,” Grant replied, adding, 
with a view to tease his aunt, “ and she may get up a 
warmer feeling, for there is no guessing what will hap- 
pen when a young man is teaching a girl to ride a 
bicycle, as he is teaching Thea.” 

“ Ride a bicycle ! Thea on a bicycle ! Thea astride 
of a wheel !” Miss Morton exclaimed, horrified and 
aghast at the idea. 

Was the world all topsy-turvy, or had she lived so 
long out of it that she had lost her balance and fallen 
off? She did not know, and she looked very white and 
worried, while Grant laughed at her distress and told 
her how picturesque Thea looked in her blue gown and 
red shoes and jockey cap, adding : 

“ And she rides well, too, which is more than can be 
said of all the girls. But it is of no use to kick at the 
bicycles ; they have come to stay, and I mean to get 
Doris one as soon as I can. She must not be left out in 
the cold when Thea and I go racing down the turnpike. 
j3he will be splendid on a wheel.” 

“God forbid!” came with a gasp from the highly 
scandalized lady, while Doris’s eyes shone with a won- 
derful brilliancy as they looked their thanks at Grant. 

With a view to change the conversation, Beriah began 


306 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


to question Grant of his trip to Egypt, without a sus- 
picion of the deep waters into which she was sailing. 
After describing some of the excursions on the donkeys, 
Grant suddenly exclaimed : 

“ By the way, Aunt Brier, I met an old acquaintance 
of yours in Cairo; Tom Atkins, who said he used to visit 
Morton Park. Do you remember him ?” 

Beriah was white to the roots of her hair, and her 
hand shook so that her coffee was spilled upon the dam- 
ask cloth as she answered, faintly : 

“Tom Atkins ? yes, I remember him.” 

It was Keziah who came to the rescue now by giving 
the signal to leave the table, and so put an end for the 
time being to the conversation concerning Tom Atkins ; 
but that evening, after most of the family had retired, 
as Grant sat smoking in the moonlight at the end of the 
piazza, a slender figure clad in a gray wrapper with a 
white scarf on her head stole up to him and said, very 
softly and sadly : 

“ Now, Grant, tell me about Tom.” 

Grant told her all he knew, and that night Beriah 
wrote in her diary as follows : 

“ Tom is alive, and wears a fez and a white flannel 
suit, and has a little, dark-eyed, tawny-haired girl whom 
he calls Zaidee. Of course there is or has been an 
Oriental wife, and Tom is as much lost to me as if he 
were sleeping in his grave. I am glad he is alive, and 
think I am glad because of the little girl Zaidee. It is 
a pretty name, and if she were motherless I know I 
could love her dearly for Tom’s sake, but such happi, 
ness is not for me, Ah, well, God knows best.” 


THEA AT MOKTON PARK. 


307 


CHAPTER X. — Doris’s Story. 

THEA AT MORTON PARK. 

Thea is here, and has brought her wheel and her 
banjo and her pet dog, besides three trunks of clothes. 
The dog, whom she calls Cheek, has conceived an unac- 
countable dislike to Aunt Kizzy, at whom he barks so 
furiously whenever she is in sight that Thea keeps him 
tied in her room except when she takes him into the 
grounds for exercise. Even then he is on the lookout 
for the enemy, and once made a fierce charge at her 
shawl, which she had left in the summer house and 
which was not rescued from him until one or two rents 
had been made in it. Thea laughs, and calls him a bad 
boy, and puts her arms around Aunt Kizzy’s neck and 
kisses her and tells her she will send Cheek home as 
soon as she gets a chance, and then she sings “ Ta-ra- 
ra-boom-de-ay,” which she says is all the rage, and she 
dances the skirt dance with Grant, to whom she is teach- 
ing a new step, which shows her pretty feet and ankles 
and consists mostly of “ one-two-three-kick.” And they 
do kick, or Grant does, so high that Aunt Kizzy asks in 
alarm if that is quite proper, and then Thea kisses her 
again and calls her “ an unsophisticated old darling who 
doesn’t know the ways of the world and must be taught.” 
Her banjo lies round anywhere and everywhere, just as 
do her hat and her gloves and parasol, and Aunt Kizzy, 
who is so particular with me, never says a word, but 
herself picks up after the disorderly girl, who, with 
Grant, has turned the house upside down and filled it 


308 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


with laughter and frolic. Her wheel stays at night in a 
little room at the end of the piazza, with Grant’s, for he 
has one, and with Thea he goes scurrying through the 
town, sometimes in the street and sometimes on the 
sidewalk, to the terror of the pedestrians. Thea has 
already knocked down two negroes and run into the stall 
of an old apple-woman, who would have brought a suit 
if Aunt Kizzy had not paid the damages claimed. 

What do I think of Thea ? I love her, and have loved 
her from the moment she came up to me so cordially 
and called me Cousin Doris, and told me Grant had 
written her all about me, and that because I was at 
Morton Park she had come earlier than she had intended 
doing, and had left her old Gardy and Aleck Grady dis- 
consolate. “ But,” she added, quickly : “ Aleck is com- 
ing soon, and then it will be jolly with four of us, Grant 
and you, Aleck and me, and if we can’t paint the town 
red my name is not Thea.” 

I don’t suppose she is really pretty, except her eyes, 
which are lovely, but her voice is so sweet and her man- 
ners so soft and kittenish and pleasing that you never 
stop to think if she is handsome, but take her as she is 
and find her charming. She occupies the guest-room 
of course, and I share it with her, for she insisted at 
once that my cot be moved in there, so we could “ talk 
nights as late as we pleased.” Aunt Kizzy, who does 
not believe in talking late, and always knocks on the 
wall if she hears me move in the Glory Hole after half- 
past nine, objected at first, saying it was more proper 
for young girls to room alone, but Thea told her that 
propriety had gone out of fashion with a lot of other 
stuff, and insisted, until the Glory Hole was abandoned 
and used only for toilet-purposes, 


THEA AT MORtON PARK. 


300 


“ just what it was intended for,” Thea said, “ and the 
idea of penning you up there is ridiculous. I know 
Aunt Kizzy, as I always call her, and know exactly how 
to manage her.” 

And she does manage her beautifully, while I look on 
amazed. The first night after her arrival she invited 
me into her room, where I found her habited in a crim- 
son dressing-gown, with her hair, which had grown very 
long, rippling down her back, and a silver-mounted 
brush in one hand and a hand-glass in the other. There 
was a light-wood fire on the hearth, for it was raining 
heavily, and the house was damp and chilly. Drawing 
a settee rocker before the fire, she made me sit down 
close by her, and, putting her arm around me and lay- 
ing my head on her shoulder, she said, “ Now, Chickie, — 
or rather Softie, which suits you better, as you seem just 
like the kind of girls who are softies, — now let’s talk.” 

“ But,” I objected, “ Aunt Kizzy’s room is just below, 
and it’s nearly ten o’clock, and she will hear us and rap.” 

“ Let her rap ! I am not afraid of Aunt Kizzy. She 
never raps me ; and if you are so awfully particular, 
we’ll whisper, while I tell you all my secrets, and you 
tell me yours,— about the boys, I mean. Girls don’t 
count. Tell me of the fellows, and the scrapes you got 
into at school.” 

It was in vain that I protested that I had no secrets 
and knew nothing about fellows or scrapes. She knew 
better, she said, for no girl could go through any school 
and not know something about them unless she were a 
greater softie than I looked to be. 

“ I was always getting into a scrape, or out of one,” 
she said, “ and it was such fun. Why, I never learned 
a blessed thing,— I didn’t go to learn, and 1 kept the 


310 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


teachers so stirred up that their lives were a burden to 
them, and I know they must have made a special thank- 
offering to some missionary fund when I left. And yet 
I know they liked me in spite of my pranks. And to 
think you were stuffing your head with knowledge at 
Wellesley all the time, and I never knew it, nor Grant 
either ! I tell you he don’t like it any better than I do. 
And Aunt Kizzy’s excuse, that you would have 
neglected your studies if you had known he was at 
Harvard, is all rubbish. That was not the reason. Do 
you know what the real one was ?” 

I said I did not, and with a little laugh she continued, 
“ You are a softie, sure enough then, pushing me a 
little from her, she regarded me attentively a moment, 
and continued, “ Do you know how very, very beautiful 
you are ?” 

I might have disclaimed such knowledge, if some- 
thing in her bright, searching eyes had not wrung the 
truth in part from me, and made me answer, “ I have 
been told so a few times.” 

“ Of course you have,” she replied. Who told you ?” 

“Oh, the girls at Wellesley,” I answered, beginning 
to feel uneasy under the fire of her eyes. 

“ Humbug !” she exclaimed. “ I tell you, girls don’t 
count. I mean boys. What boy has told you you were 
handsome? Has Grant? Honor bright, has Grant?” 

The question was so sudden that I was taken quite 
aback, while conscious guilt, if I can call it that, added 
to my embarrassment. It was three weeks since Grant 
came home, and in that time we had made rapid strides 
towards something warmer than friendship. We had 
ridden and driven together for miles around the country, 
had played and sung together, and walked together 


TfiEA At MOttTON PARK. 


311 


through the spacious grounds, and once when we sat in 
the summer-house and I had told him of my father’s 
and mother’s death and my life in Meadowbrook and 
Wellesley, and how lonely I had sometimes been be^ 
cause no one cared for me, he had put his arm around 
me, and, kissing my forehead, had said, “Poor little 
Dorey ! I wish I had known you were at Wellesley. 
You should never have been lonely and then he told 
me that he had seen me twice in Boston, once at a con- 
cert and once in a street-car, and had never forgotten 
my face, which he thought beautiful, and that he had 
called me his Lost Star, whom he had looked for so long 
and found at last. And as he talked I had listened with 
a heart so full of happiness that I could not speak, 
although with the happiness there was a pang of re- 
morse when I remembered what Aunt Kezian had said 
about my not trying to win Grant’s love. And I was 
not trying ; the fault, if there were any, was on his side, 
and probably he meant nothing At all events, the 
scene in the summer-house was not repeated, and I 
fancied that Grant’s manner after it was somewhat con- 
strained, as if he were a little sorry. But he had kissed 
me and told me I was beautiful, and when Thea put the 
question to me direct, I stammered out at last, “ Ye-es, 
Grant thinks I am handsome.” 

“Of course he does. How can he help it? And I 
don’t mind, even if we are engaged.” 

“ Engaged !” I repeated, and drew back from her a 
little, for, although I had suspected the engagement, I 
had never been able to draw from my aunts any allusion 
to it or admission of it, and I had almost made myself 
believe that there was none. 

But I knew it now, and for a moment I felt as if I 


312 


THE IlEPEUBN LIN ft. 


were smothering, while Thea regarded me curiously, but 
with no jealousy or anger in her gaze. 

“ You are surprised,” she said at last. “ Has neither 
of the aunts told you ?” 

“ No,” I replied, “ they have not, but I have some- 
times suspected it. And I have reason to think that 
such a marriage would please Aunt Kizzy very much. 
Let me congratulate you.” 

“ You needn’t,” she said, a little stiffly. “ It is all a 
made-up affair. Shall I tell you about myself ?” And, 
drawing me close to her again, she told me that at a 
very early age she became an orphan, with a large for- 
tune as a certainty when she was twenty-one, as she 
would be at Christmas, and another fortune coming to 
her in the spring, if she did not marry Grant, and half 
in case she did. “ It’s an awful muddle,” she continued, 
‘‘and you can’t understand it. I don’t either, except 
that one of my ancestors, old Amos Hepburn, of Kes- 
wick, England, made a queer will, or condition, or 
something, by which the Mortons will lose their home 
unless I marry Grant, which is not a bad thing to do. 
I have known him all my life, and like him so much ; 
and it is not a bad thing for him to marry me, either. 
Better do that than lose his home.” 

“ Would he marry you just for money ?” I asked, 
while the spot on my forehead, which he had kissed, 
burned so that I thought she must see it. 

But she was brushing her long hair and twisting it 
into braids, and did not look at me as she went on 
rapidly : “ No, I don’t think he would marry me for my 
money unless he liked me some. Aleck wouldn’t, and 
Grant thinks himself vastly superior to Aleck, whom he 
calls a bore and a crank ; and perhaps he is, but he is 


THE! A AT MORTOti PARK. 


313 


very nice, — not handsome like Grant, and not like him 
in anything. He has reddish hair, and freckles on his 
nose, and big hands, and wears awful baggy clothes, 
and scolds me a good deal, which Grant never does, and 
tells me I am fast and slangy, and that I powder too 
much. He is my second cousin, you know, and stands 
next to me in the Hepburn line, and if I should die he 
would come in for the Morton estate, unless he finds 
the missing link, as he calls it, which is ahead of us 
both. I am sure you will like him, and I shall be so 
glad when he comes. I am not half as silly with him 
as I am without him, because I am a little afraid of him, 
and I miss him so much.” 

As I knew nothing of Aleck, I did not reply, and 
after a moment, during which she finished braiding her 
hair and began to do up her bangs in curl-papers, she 
said, abruptly, “ Why don’t you speak? Don’t you 
tumble ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” I asked, and with very expres- 
sive gestures of her hands, which she had learned 
abroad, she exclaimed, “ Now, you are not so big a 
softie as not to know what tumble means, and you have 
been graduated at Wellesley, too ! You are greener 
I than I thought, and I give it up. But you just wait 
till I have coached you awhile, and you’ll know what 
tumble means, and a good many more things of which 
you never dreamed.” 

I said I did not like slang, — in short, that I detested 
it, — and we were having rather a spirited discussion on 
the subject, and Thea was talking in anything but a 
whisper, when suddenly there came a tremendous knock 
on the door, which in response to Thea’s prompt 
“ Entrez ” opened wide and disclosed to view the awful 


314 


THE HEBBUEN LtNfc. 


presence of Aunt Kizzy in her night cap, without her 
false piece, felt slippers on her feet, a candle in her 
hand, and a look of stern disapproval on her face as she 
addressed herself to me, asking if I knew how late it 
was, and why I was keeping Thea up. 

“ She is not keeping me up. I am keeping her. I 
asked her to come in here, and when she said we should 
disturb you I told her we would whisper, and we have 
until I was stupid enough to forget myself. I’m 
awfully sorry, but Doris is not to blame,” Thea ex- 
plained, generously defending me against Aunt Kizzy, 
towards whom she moved with a graceful, gliding step, 
adding, as she put her arm around her neck, “ Now go 
back to bed, that’s a dear, and Doris shall go too, and 
we’ll never disturb you again. I w T onder if you know 
how funny you look without your hair !” 

I had never suspected Aunt Kizzy of caring much 
for her personal appearance, but at the mention of her 
hair she quickly put her hand to her head with a de- 
precatory look on her face, and without another word 
walked away, while Thea threw herself into a chair, 
shaking with laughter and declaring that it was a lark 
worthy of De Moisiere. 

* ***** 

Four weeks have passed since I made my last entry in 
my journal, and so much has happened in that time 
that I feel as if I were years older than I was when 
Thea came, and, as she expressed it, “ took me in hand.” 
I am certainly a great deal wiser than I was, but am 
neither the better nor the happier for it, and although 
I know now what tumble means, and all the flirtation 
signs, and a great deal more besides, I detest it all, and 


THEA AT MORTON PARK. 


315 


cannot help feeling that the girl who practices such 
things has lost something from her womanhood which 
good men prize. Old-maidish Thea calls me, and says 
I shall never be anything but a softie . And still we are 
great friends, for no one can help loving her, she is so 
bright and gay and kind. As for Grant, he puzzles me. 
I have tried to be distant towards him since Thea told 
me of her engagement, and once I spoke of it to him 
and asked why he did not tell me himself. I never 
knew before that Grant could scowl, as he did when he 
replied, “Oh, bother! there are some things a fellow 
does not care to talk about, and this is one of them. 
You and Thea gossip together quite too much.” 

After that I didn’t speak to Grant for two whole days. 
But he made it up the third day in the summer-house 
where he had kissed me onee, and would have kissed 
me again, but for an accident. 

“ Doris,” he said, as he took my face between his 
hands and bent his own so close to it that I felt his 
breath on my cheek, — “ Doris, don’t quarrel with me. 
I can’t bear it. I ” 

What more he would have said I do not know, as 
just then we heard Thea’s voice near by calling to Aleck 
Grady, who has been in town three weeks, stopping at 
the hotel, but spending most of his time at Morton 
Park, and I like him very much. He seems very plain- 
looking at first, but after you know him you forget his 
hair and his freckles and his hands and general awk- 
wardness, and think only how thoroughly good-natured 
and kind and considerate he is, with a heap of common 
sense. Thea is not quite the same when he is with us. 
She is more quiet and ladylike, and does not use so 
much slang, and acts rather queer, it seems to me. 


316 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


Indeed, the three of them act queer, and I feel queer 
and unhappy, although I seem to be so gay, and the 
house and grounds resound with laughter and merri- 
ment all day long. Aleck comes early, and always 
stays to lunch, if invited, as he often is by Thea, but 
never by Aunt Kizzy, who has grown haggard and thin 
and finds a great deal of fault with me because, as she 
says, I am flirting with Grant and trying to win him 
from Thea. 

It is false. I am not flirting with Grant. I am not 
trying to win him from Thea, but rather to keep out of 
his way, which I cannot do, for he is always at my side, 
and when we go for a walk, or a ride, or a drive, it is 
Aleck and Thea first, and necessarily Grant is left for 
me, and, what is very strange, he seems to like it, while 

I Oh, whither am I drifting, and what shall I do? 

I know now all about the Morton lease and the Hep- 
burn line, for Aunt Kizzy has told me, and with tears 
streaming down her cheeks has begged me not to be 
her ruin. And I will not, even if I should love Grant 
far more than I do now, and should feel surer than I 
do that he loves me and would gladly be free from 
Thea, who laughs and sings and dances as gayly as if 
there were no troubled hearts around her, while Aleck 
watches her and Grant and me with a quizzical look on 
his face which makes me furious at times. He has 
talked to me about the missing link and the family 
tree, which he offered to show me, but I declined, and 
said impatiently that I had heard enough about old 
Amos Hepburn and that wretched condition, and wished 
both had been in the bottom of the sea before they had 
done so much mischief. With a good-humored laugh 
he put up his family tree and told me not to be so hard 


THE CRISIS. 


317 


on his poor old ancestor, saying he did not think either 
he or his condition would harm the Mortons much. 

I don’t know what he meant, and I don’t know any- 
thing except that I am miserable, and Grant is equally 
so, and I do not dare stay alone with him a moment, or 
look in his eyes for fear of what I may see there, or he 
may see in mine. 

Alas for us both, and alas for the Hepburn line ! 


CHAPTER XI. — The Author’s Story. 

the CRISIS. 

It came sooner than the two who were watching the 
progress of affairs expected it, and the two were Kizzy 
and Dizzy. The first was looking at what she could not 
help, with a feeling like death in her heart, while the 
latter felt her youth come back to her as she saw one by 
one the signs she had once known so well. She knew 
what Grant’s failure to marry Thea meant to them. 
But she did not worry about it. With all her fear of 
Keziah, she had a great respect for and confidence in 
her, and was sure she would manage somehow, no mat- 
ter whom Grant married. And so in her white gown 
and blue ribbons she sat upon the wide piazza day after 
day, and smiled upon the young people, who, recogniz- 
ing an ally in her, made her a sort of queen around 
whose throne they gathered, all longing to tell her 
their secret, except Doris, who, hearing so often from 
her Aunt Keziah that she was the cause of all the 
trouble, was very unhappy, and kept away from Grant 


318 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


as much as possible. But he found her one afternoon 
in the summer-house looking so inexpressibly sweet, 
and pathetic, too, with the traces of tears on her face, 
that, without a thought of the consequences, he sat 
down beside her, and, putting his arms around her, 
said : 

“ My poor little darling, what is the matter, and why 
do yon try to avoid me as you do ?” 

There was nothing of the coquette about Doris, and 
at the sound of Grant’s voice speaking to her as he did, 
and the touch of his hand which had taken hers and was 
carrying it to his lips, she laid her head on his shoulder 
and sobbed : 

“ Oh, Grant, I can’t bear it. Aunt Kizzy scolds me 
so, and 1 — I can’t help it, and I’m going to Meadow- 
brook to teach or do something, where I shall not 
trouble any one again.” 

“ No, Doris,” Grant said, in a voice more earnest and 
decided than any she had ever heard from him. “ You 
are not going away from me. You are mine and I in- 
tend to keep you. I will play a hypocrite’s part no 
longer. I love you , and I do not love Thea as a man 
ought to love the girl he makes his wife, nor as she de- 
serves to be loved ; and even if you refuse me I shall 
not marry her. It would be a great sin to take her 
when my whole soul was longing for another.” 

“Grant, are you crazy? Don’t you know you must 
marry Thea ? Have you forgotten the Hepburn line ?” 
Doris said, lifting her head from his shoulder and turn- 
ing towards him a face which, although bathed in tears, 
was radiant with the light of a great joy. 

Had Grant been in the habit of swearing, he would 


THE CRISIS. 


319 


probably have consigned the Hepburn line to perdition. 
As it was, he said : 

“ Confound the Hepburn line ! Enough have been 
made miserable on account of it, and I don’t propose to 
be added to the number, nor do I believe much in it, 
either. Aleck does not believe in it at all, and we are 
going to look up the law without Aunt Kizzy’s knowl- 
edge. She is so cursed proud and reticent, too, or she 
would have found out for herself before this time 
whether we are likely to be beggared or not. And 
even if the lease holds good, don’t you suppose that a 
great strapping fellow like me can take care of himself 
and four women ?” 

As he had never yet done anything but spend money, 
it seemed doubtful to Doris whether he could do any- 
thing or not. But she did not care. The fact that he 
loved her, that he held her in his arms and was cover- 
ing her face with kisses, was enough for the present, 
and for a few moments Aunt Kizzy’s wrath and the 
Hepburn line were forgotten, while she abandoned 
herself to her great happiness. Then she remembered, 
and, releasing herself from Grant, stood up before him 
and told him that it could not be. 

“ I am not ashamed to confess that I love you,” she 
said, “ and the knowing that you love me will always 
make me happier. But you are bound to Thea, and I 
will never separate you from her or bring ruin upon 
your family. I will go away, as I said, and never come 
again until you and Thea are married.” 

She was backing from the summer-house as she 
talked, and so absorbed were she and Grant both that 
neither saw nor heard anything until, having reached 
the door, Doris backed into Thea’s arms, 


320 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


“ Hello !” was her characteristic exclamation, as she 
looked curiously at Doris and then at Grant, who, 
greatly confused, had risen to his feet, “ And so I 
have caught you,” she continued, “ and I suppose you 
think I am angry ; but I am not. I am glad, as it 
makes easier what I am going to tell you. Sit down, 
Grant, and hear me,” she continued authoritatively, as 
she saw him moving towards the doorway, opposite to 
where she stood, still holding Doris tightly. “ Sit 
down, and let’s have it out, like sensible people who 
have been mistaken and discovered their mistake in 
time. I know you love Doris, and I know she loves 
you, and she just suits you, for she is beautiful and 
sweet and fresh, while I am neither ; I am homely, 
and fast, and slangy, and sometimes loud and for- 
ward.” 

“ Oh, Thea, Thea, you are not all this,” Doris cried. 

But Thea went on : “ Yes, I am ; Aleck says so, and 

he knows, and that is why I like him so much. He tells 
me my faults straight out, which Grant never did. He 
simply endured me because he felt that he must, until he 
saw you, and then it was not in the nature of things 
that I could keep him any longer. I have seen it, and 
so has Aleck ; and this morning, under the great elm 
in the far part of the grounds, we came to an under- 
standing, and I told the great, awkward, ugly Aleck 
that I loved him better than I ever loved Grant ; and I 
do,— I do !” 

She was half crying, and breathing hard, and with 
each breath was severing some link which had bound 
her to Grant, who for once felt as awkward as Aleck 
himself, and stood abashed before the young girl who 
yyas so boldly declaring her preference for another. 


THE CRISIS. 


321 


What could he say ? he asked himself. He surely could 
not remonstrate with her, or protest against what would 
make him so happy, and so he kept silent, while brushing 
the tears from her eyes, she continued, “ I don’t know 
when it began, or how, only it did begin, and now I 
don’t care how ugly he is, nor how big his feet and 
hands are. He is just as good as he can be, and I am go- 
ing to marry him. There !” 

She stopped, quite out of breath, and looked at Doris, 
whose face was very white, and whose voice trembled 
as she said : 

“But, Thea, have you forgotten the lease?" 

“ The lease !” Thea repeated, bitterly. “ I hate the 
very name. It has worked so much mischief, and all for 
nothing, Aleck says, and he knows, and don’t believe it 
would stand a moment, and if it does we have arranged 
for it, and should the Morton estate ever come to me 
through Aunt Kizzy’s foolish insistence, I shall deed it 
straight back to her, or to you and Grant, which will be 
better. It is time old Amos Hepburn was euchred, and 
I am glad to do it. Such trouble as he has brought to 
your grandfather, your father, and to me, thrusting me 
upon one who did not care a dime for me !” 

“ Thea, Thea, you are mistaken. I did care for you 
until I saw Doris, and I care for you yet,” Grant said, 
and Thea replied : 

“ In a way, yes. But you were driven to it by Aunt 
Kizzy, and so was I. Why, I do not remember a time' 
when I did not think I was to marry you, and once I 
liked the idea, too, and threw myself at your head, and 
appropriated you in a way which makes me ashamed 
when I remember it. Aleck has told me, and he knows, 
and will keep me straight, while you would have let me 


322 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


run wild, and from a bold, pert, slangy girl I should have 
degenerated into a coarse, second-class woman, with 
only money and the Morton name to keep me up. You 
and Doris exactly suit each other, and your lives will 
glide along without a ripple, while Aleck’s and mine 
will be stormy at times, for he has a will and I have a 
temper, but the making up will be grand, and that I 
should never have known with you. I am going to tell 
Aunt Kizzy now, and have it over. So, Grant, let’s say 
good-bye to all there has been between ns, and if you 
want to kiss me once in memory of the past you can do 
so. Doris will not mind.” 

There was something very pathetic in Thea’s manner 
as she lifted her face for the kiss which was to part her 
and Grant forever, and for an instant her arms clung 
tightly around his neck as if the olden love were dying 
hard in spite of what she had said of Aleck ; then with- 
out a word she went swiftly up the walk, leaving Grant 
and Doris alone. 


CHAPTER XII. — Doris’s Story. 

THE MISSING LINK. 

How can I write when my heart is so full that it 
seems as if it would burst with its load of surprise and 
happiness ? Grant and I are engaged, and so are Thea 
and Aleck, and of the two I believe Thea is happier 
than I, who am still so stunned that I can scarcely real- 
ize what a few hours have brought to me,— Grant, and 
—and— a fortune \ And this is ho\v it happened, 


THE MISSING LINK. 


323 


Grant was saying things to me which I thought he 
ought not to say, when Thea came suddenly upon 
and told us she loved Aleck better than she did Gram, 
whom she transferred to me in a rather bewildering 
fashion, while I accepted him on condition that Aunt 
Kizzy gave her consent. She did not appear at dinner 
that night, and the next morning she was suffering from 
a severe headache and kept her room, but sent word 
that she would see Thea and Grant after breakfast. 
This left me to Aleck, who came early and asked me to 
go with him to the summer-house, where we could “talk 
over the row,” as he expressed it. Love had certainly 
wrought a great change in him, softening and refining 
his rugged features until he seemed almost handsome 
as he talked to me of Thea, whom he had fancied from 
the time he first saw her. 

“ She is full of faults, I know,” he said, “ but I believe I 
love her the better for them, as they will add variety to 
our lives. She and Grant would have stagnated, as he 
did not care enough for her to oppose her in any way. 
Theirs would have been a marriage of convenience ; 
ours will be one of love.” 

And then he drifted off to the Morton lease and Hep- 
burn line and family tree. 

“ You have never seen it, I believe,” he said, taking 
from his pocket a sheet of foolscap and spreading it out 
upon his lap. He had offered to show it to me before, 
but I had declined examining it. Now, however, I af- 
fected to be interested, and glanced indifferently at the 
sheet, with its queer looking diagrams and rows of 
names, which he called branches of the Hepburn tree. 
“ I have not made it out quite ship-shape, like one I saw 
in London lately,” he said, taking out his pencil and 


324 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


pointing to the name which headed the list, “ but I 
think you will understand it. You have no idea what 
a fascination there has been to me in hunting up my 
ancestors and wondering what manner of people they 
were. First, here is Amos Hepburn, the old curmudgeon 
who leased that property to your grandfather ninety 
years ago. He married Dorothea Foster, and had three 
daughters, Octavia, Agrippina, and Poppaea.” 

“ Octavia, Agrippina, and Poppaea,” I exclaimed. 
“ What could have induced him to give these names to 
his daughters ?” 

“ Classical taste, I suppose,” Aleck said. “ No doubt 
the old gentleman was fond of Roman history, and the 
names took his fancy. If he had had a son he would 
probably have called him Nero. Poppaea, the young- 
est, is my maternal ancestress. I inherit my beauty 
from her.” 

Here he laughed heartily, and then went on : 

“ Agrippina, the second daughter, was Thea’s great- 
grandmother, and called no doubt after the good Agrip- 
pina, and hot the bad one, who had that ducking in the 
sea at the hands of her precious son. As to the eldest 
daughter, she ought to have felt honored to be named 
for the poor little abused Empress Octavia ; and then it 
is a pretty name.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” I said, “ and it is my middle name, 
which my grandmother and my great-grandmother bore 
before me.” 

“That’s odd,” he rejoined, looking curiously at me. 
“ Yes, very odd. Suppose we go over Thea’s branch 
of the tree first, as that is the oldest line to which a 
direct heir can be found, and consequently gives her the 
Morton estate. First, Agrippina Hepburn married John 


the missing link. 


325 


Austin, and had one child, Charlotte Poppaea, who 
married Tom Haynes, and bore him one daughter, 
Sophia, and two sons, James and John. This John, by 
the way, I have heard, was the young man whom Miss 
Keziah wished your Aunt Beriah to marry, and failing 
in that she wished your father to marry Sophia. But 
neither plan worked, for both died, and James married 
Victoria Snead, of Louisville, and had one daughter, 
Dorothea Victoria, otherwise Thea, my promised wife, 
and the great-great-grandaughter of old Amos Hepburn. 
As I, although several years older than Thea, am in the 
third and youngest branch of the tree, I have no claim 
on the Morton estate ; neither would Thea have, if I 
could find the missing link in the first and oldest branch, 
that of Octavia, who was married in Port Rush, Ireland, 
to Mr. McMahon, and had twins, Augustus Octavius, 
and Octavia Augusta. You see she, too, was classically 
inclined, like her father. Well, Augustus Octavius 
died, and Octavia Augusta married Henry Gale, a hat- 
ter, in Leamington, England, and emigrated to America 
in 18 — , and settled in New York, where all trace of her 
is lost. Nor can I by any possible means find anything 
about her, except that Henry Gale died, but whether he 
left children I do not know. Presumably he did, and 
their descendants would be the real heirs to the Morton 
property, if that clause holds good. Do you see the 
point ? or, as Thea would say, do you tumble ?” 

He repeated his question in a louder tone, as I did 
not answer him, but sat staring at the unfinished branch 
of the Hepburn tree. I did tumble nearly off the seat, 
and only kept myself from doing so entirely by clutch- 
ing Aleck’s arm and holding it so tightly that he winced 


826 


THE HEPBURN LINE, 


a little as he moved away from me, and said : “ What’s 
the matter? Has something stung you ?” 

“ No,” I replied, with a gasp, and a feeling that I was 
choking, or fainting, or both. 

I had followed him closely through Agrippina's line, 
and had felt a little bored when he began on Octavia’s, 
but only for an instant, and then I was all attention, and 
felt my blood prickling in rr y veins and saw rings of fire 
dancing before my eyes, as I glanced at the names, as 
familiar to me as old friends. 

“ Aleck,” I whispered, for I could not speak aloud, 
“ these are all my ancestors, I am sure, for do you think 
it possible for two Octavias and two M'cMahons to have 
been married in Port Rush and had twins whom they 
called Octavia Augusta and Augustus Octavius, and for 
Augustus to die and Octavia to marry a Mr. Gale, a hat- 
ter, in Leamington, and emigrate to New York ?” 

It was Aleck’s turn now to stare and turn pale, as he 
exclaimed : 

“What do you mean ?” 

“I mean,” I said, “that my great-grandmother’s 
name was Octavia, but I never heard that it was also 
Hepburn, or if I did I have forgotten it. I know, 
though, that she married a McMahon and lived at Port 
Rush. I know, too, that Mrs. McMahon had twins, 
whose names were Augustus Octavius and Octavia 
Augusta. Augustus died, but Octavia, who was my 
grandmother, first married a Mr. Gale, a hatter, in 
Leamington, and then came to New York, where he 
died. She then went to P>oston, married Charles Wil- 
son, and moved to New Haven, where my mother, 
Dorothea Augusta, was born, and where she married 
my father. I have a record of it in an old English 


'THE MisSItfG LINK. 


327 


book, which, after my grandmother’s death, was sent to 
my mother with some other things.” 

“ Eureka ! I have found the missing link, and you are 
it ! Hurrah !” Aleck exclaimed, springing to his feet 
and catching me up as if I had been a feather’s weight. 
“ I was never more surprised in my life, or glad either. 
To think here is the link right in Miss Kizzy’s hands ! 
Wouldn’t she have torn her hair if Grant had married 
Thea ? By Jove, it Would have been a joke, and a sort 
of retributive justice, too. I must tell her myself. But 
first let’s be perfectly sure. You spoke of a record. 
Do you happen to have it with you ?” 

“ Yes, in my trunk,” I said, and, excusing myself for 
a few moments, I flew to the house, and soon returned 
with what had originally been a blank-book and which 
my grandmother had used for many purposes, such as 
recording family expenses, names of people who had 
boarded with her, and when they came, what they paid 
her, and when they left ; dates, too, of various events in 
her life, together with receipts for cooking ; and pinned 
to the last page was an old yellow sheet of foolscap, 
with the name of a Leamington bookseller just discerni- 
ble upon it. On this sheet were records in two or three 
different handwritings. The first was the birth in 
Leamington of Augustus Octavius and Octavia Au- 
gusta, children of Patrick and Octavia McMahon, who 
were married in Port Rush, April ioth, 18 — . Then fol- 
lowed the death of Augustus and the marriage of Octa- 
via to William Gale, of Leamington. Then, in my 
grandmother’s handwriting, the death of Mr. Gale in 
New York, followed by a masculine hand, presumably 
that of my grandfather, Charles Wilson, who married 
Mrs. Octavia Gale in Boston, and to whom my mother, 


328 THE HEPBURN liNti. 

Dorothea Augusta, was born in New Haven. I remem- 
ber perfectly well seeing my mother record the date of 
her marriage with my father and of my birth on the 
sheet of foolscap after it came to her with the other 
papers from my grandmother, but when or why it was 
pinned into the blank-book I could not tell. I only 
knew it was there, and that I had kept the book, which 
I now handed to Aleck, whose face wore a puzzled look 
as, opening it at random, he began to read a receipt for 
ginger snaps. 

“ What the dickens has this to do with Caesar Augus- 
tus and Augustus Caesar ?” he asked, while I showed 
him the sheet of paper, which he read very attentively 
twice, and compared with his family tree. “You are 
the Link, and no mistake !” he said. “ Everything fits 
to a T, as far as my tree goes. Of course it will have to 
be proven, but that is easily done by beginning at this 
end and working back to where the branch failed to 
connect. And now I am going to tell Miss Morton and 
Grant. Will you come with me ?” 

“ No,” I replied, feeling that I had not strength to 
walk to the house. 

I was so confused and stunned and weak that I could 
only sit still and think of nothing until Grant’s arms 
were around me and he was covering my face with 
kisses and calling me his darling. 

“ Aleck has told us the strangest story,” he said, “ and 
I am so glad for you, and glad that I asked you to be 
my wife before I heard it, as you know it is yourself I 
want, and not what you may or may not bring me. 
Aunt Kizzy is in an awful collapse, — fainted dead away 
when she heard it.” 

“ Oh, Grant, how could you leave her and come to 


missing link. 


353 

me ?’* I asked, reproachfully, and he replied, “ Because 
I could do no good. There were Aunts Dizzy and Brier, 
and Thea, and Aleck, and Vine, all throwing water and 
camphor and vinegar in her face, until she looked like 
a drowned rat. So I came out and left them.” 

“ But I must go to her,” I said, and with Grant’s arm 
around me I went slowly to the house and into the 
room where Aunt Kizzy lay among her pillows, with an 
expression on her face such as I had never seen before. 
It was not anger, but rather one of intense relief, as 
if the tension of years had given way and left every 
nerve quivering from the long strain, but painless and 
restful. Thea was fanning her ; Aunt Brier was bath- 
ing her forehead with cologne ; Aunt Dizzy was arrang- 
ing her false piece, which was somewhat awry ; while 
Aleck was still energetically explaining his family tree 
and comparing it with the paper I had given him. At 
sight of me Aunt Kizzy’s eyes grew blacker than their 
wont, while something like a smile flitted across her 
face as she said, “ This is a strange story I have heard, 
and it will of course have to be proved.” 

“ A task I take upon myself,” Aleck interrupted, and 
she went on to catechise me rather sharply with regard 
to my ancestors. 

“ It is strange that your father did not find it out, if 
he saw this paper.” 

“ He did not see it, for it was not sent to us until after 
his death,” I said, while Aunt Dizzy rejoined, “ And if 
he had it would have conveyed no meaning to him, as I 
do not suppose he ever troubled himself to trace the 
Hepburn line to its beginning or knew that Mrs. 
McMahon was a Hepburn. I have no idea what my 
great-grandmother’s name was before she 'was married. 


330 


TItE HKfBtJKN LINE!. 


For me, I need no confirmation whatever, but accept 
Doris as I have always accepted her, a dear little girl 
whose coming to us has brought a blessing with it, and 
although I am very fond of Thea, and should have 
loved her as Grant’s wife, I am still very glad it is to 
be Doris.” 

She was standing by me now, with her hand on my 
shoulder, while Aunt Brier and Thea both came to my 
side, the latter throwing her arms around my neck and 
saying, “ And I am glad it is Doris, and that the Hep- 
burn line is torn into shreds. I believe I hate that old 
Amos, who, by the way, is as much your ancestor as 
mine, for we are cousins, you know.” 

She kissed me lovingly, and, putting my hand in 
Aunt Kizzy’s, said to her, “ Aren’t you glad it is 
Doris ?” 

Then Aunt Kizzy did a most extraordinary thing for 
her. She drew me close to her and cried like a child. 

“Yes,” she said, “I am glad it is Doris, and sorry 
that I have been so hard with everybody, first with 
Beriah, and then with Gerold, whom I loved as if he 
had been my own son, and who it seems married into 
the Hepburn line and I did not know it. And I have 
loved you, too, Doris, more than you guess, notwith- 
standing I have seemed so cross and cold and crabbed. 
I have been a monomaniac on the subject of the Hep- 
burn lease. Can you forgive me ?” 

I could easily answer that question, for with her first 
kind word all the ill feeling I had ever cherished against 
her was swept away, and, putting my face to hers, I 
kissed her more than once, in token of peace between us. 

That afternoon Aleck started North with his family 
tree and my family record, and, beginning at the date 


TFJlC MISSING LINK. 


m 

of my mother’s marriage, worked backward until the 
branch which had been broken with the Gales in New 
York was united with the Wilsons of New Haven, 
“ making a beautiful whole,” as he wrote in a letter to 
Thea, who was to me like a dear sister, and who, with 
her perfect tact, treated Grant as if they had never 
been more to each other than friends. Those were very 
happy days which followed, and now, instead of being 
the least, I think I am the most considered of all in the 
household, and in her grave way Aunt Kizzy pets me 
more than any one else, except, of course, Grant, whose 
love grows stronger every day, until I sometimes 
tremble with fear lest my happiness may not last. We 
are to be married at Christmas time, and are going 
abroad, and whether I shall ever write again in this 
journal I cannot tell. Years hence I may perhaps look 
at it and think how foolish I was ever to have kept it at 
all. There is Grant calling me to try a new wheel he 
has bought for me, and I must go. I can ride a wheel 
now, or do anything I like, and Aunt Kizzy does not 
object. But I don’t think 1 care to do many things, and, 
except to please Grant, I do not care much for a wheel, 
being still, as Thea says, something of a softie. 


332 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


> 


CHAPTER XIII. — Aunt Desire’s Story. 

THE THREE BRIDES. 


I am too old now to commence a diary ; but the 
house is so lonely with only Keziah and myself in it 
that I must do something, and so I will record brief!/ 
the events of the last few weeks, or rather months, 
since the astounding disclosure that Doris and not Thea 
was the direct heir in the Hepburn line. Nothing ever 
broke Keziah up like that, transforming her whole 
nature and making her quite like other people and so 
fond of Doris that she could scarcely bear to have her 
out of sight a moment, and when Grant and Doris were 
married and gone she cried like a baby, although some 
of her tears, let us hope, were for Beriah, who will not 
come back to live with us again, while Doris will. 

And right here let me speak of Beriah’s little 
romance, which has ended so happily. Years ago she 
loved Tom Atkins, but Kizzy separated them, in the 
hope that Brier would marry John Haynes, of the 
Hepburn line, as possibly she might have done, for she 
was mortally afraid of Kizzy. But John had the good 
taste to die, and Brier remained in single blessedness 
until she was past forty, when Tom, who she supposed 
was dead, turned up unexpectedly in Cairo. Grant, who 
was there at the time, made his acquaintance and 
brought a message from him to Brier, who, after receiv- 
ing it, never seemed herself, but sat for hours with her 
hands folded and a look on her face as if listening or 
waiting for some one, who came at last. 


THE THREE BRIDES. 


333 


It was in November, and the maple-leaves were drift- 
ing down in great piles of scarlet in the park, and in 
the woods there was the sound of dropping nuts, and on 
the hills a smoky light, telling of “ the melancholy days, 
the saddest of the year.” But with us there was any- 
thing but sadness, for two brides-elect were in the 
house, Doris and Thea, who were to be married at 
Christmas, and whose trousseaus were making in Frank- 
fort and Versailles. Thea had expressed a wish to be 
married at Morton Park on the same day with Doris, 
and, as her guardian did not object, she was staying 
with us altogether, while Aleck came every day. So 
we had a good deal of love-making, and the doors which 
used to be shut promptly at half-past nine were left 
open for the young people, who, in different parts of 
the grounds, or piazza, told over and over again the old 
story which, no matter how many times it is told, is 
ever new to her who hears and him who tells it. 

One morning when Aleck came as usual, he said to 
Grant, “ By the way, do you remember that chap, half 
Arab and half American, whom we met in Cairo ? At- 
kins was the name. Well, he arrived at the hotel last 
night, with that wild-eyed little girl and two Arabian 
servants, one for him, one for the child. He used to 
know some of your people, and is coming this morning 
to call, with his little girl, who is not bad-looking in her 
English dress.” 

We had just come from breakfast, and were sitting 
on the piazza, Grant with Doris, and Brier with that 
preoccupied look on her face which it had worn so long. 
But her expression changed suddenly as Aleck talked, 
and it seemed to me I could see the years roll off from 
her, leaving her young again ; and she was certainly 


334 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


very pretty when two hours later, in her gray serge 
gown with its trimmings of navy blue, and her brown 
hair, just tinged with white, waving softly around her 
forehead, she went down to meet Tom Atkins, from 
whom she parted more than twenty years ago. We had 
him to lunch and we had him to dinner, and we had 
him finally almost as much as we did Aleck, and I could 
scarcely walk in any direction that I did not see a pair 
of lovers, half hidden by shrub or tree. 

“ Tears like dey’s a love-makin* from mornin’ till 
night, an’ de ole ones is wuss dan de young,” I heard 
Adam say to Vine, and I fully concurred with him, for, 
as if he would make up for lost time, Tom could not go 
near Brier without taking her hand or putting his arm 
around her. 

Just what he said to her of the past I know not, 
except that he told her of dreary wanderings in foreign 
lands, of utter indifference as to whether he lived or 
died, until in Athens he met a pretty Greek, whom, 
under a sudden impulse, he made his wife, and who 
died when their little Zaidee was born, twelve years 
ago. After that he spent most of his time in Egypt, 
where he has a palatial home near Alexandria, with at 
least a dozen servants. Last winter he chanced to 
meet Grant at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo, and, learning 
from him that Beriah was still unmarried, he decided 
to come home, and, if he found her as unchanged in 
her feelings as he was, he would ask her a second time 
to be his wife. So he came, and the vows of old were 
renewed, and little Zaidee stayed with us altogether, so 
as to get acquainted with her new mamma that was to 
be. She is a shy, timid child, who has been thrown 
mostly with Arabs and Egyptians, but she is very 


THE THREE BRIDES. 


335 


affectionate, and her love for Beriah was touching in its 
intensity. 

When Thea heard of the engagement she begged for 
a triple wedding, and carried her point, as she usually 
does. “ A blow-out, too,” she said she wanted, as she 
should never marry but once, and a blow-out we had, 
with four hundred invitations, and people from Cincin- 
nati, Lexington, Louisville, Frankfort, and Versailles. 
There were lanterns on all the trees in the park, and 
fireworks on the lawn, and two bands in different parts 
of the grounds, and the place looked the next morning 
as if a cyclone or the battle of Gettysburg had swept 
over it. The brides were lovely, although Doris, of 
course, bore off the palm for beauty, but Thea was ex- 
ceedingly pretty, while Beriah reminded me of a Ma- 
donna, she looked so sweet and saintly, as she stood by 
Tom, who, the moment the ceremony was over, just 
took her in his arms and hugged her before us all 
Zaidee was her bridesmaid, while Kizzy was Doris’s 
and I was Thea’s, and in my cream-colored silk looked, 
they said, nearly as young as the girls. 

The next morning the newly-married people left en 
route for Europe, and the last we heard from them they 
were at Brindisi, waiting for the Hydaspes, which was 
to take them to Alexandria. Doris will come back to 
live with us again in the autumn, but Brier never, and 
when I think of that, and remember all she was to me, 
and her patience and gentleness and unselfishness, 
there is a bitter pain in my heart, and my tears fall so 
fast that I have blurred this sheet so that no one but 
myself can read it. I am glad she has Tom at last, al- 
though her going from us makes me so lonely and sad 
and brings back the dreary past and all I lost whet} 


33(5 


TIIE HEPBURN LINE. 


Henry died. But some time, and that not very far in 
the future, I shall meet my love, dead now so many 
years that, counting by them I am old, but, reckoned 
by my feelings, I am still young as he was when he 
died, and as he will be when he welcomes me inside the 
gate of the celestial city, and says to me in the voice I 
remember so well, “ I am waiting for yon, darling, and 
now come rest awhile before I show you some of the 
glories of the heavenly world, and the people who are 
here, Douglas, and Maria, and Gerold, and all the rest 
who loved you on earth, and who love you still with a 
more perfect love, because born of the Master whose 
name is love eternal.” 


CHAPTER XIV.— Doris’s Story. 

TWO YEARS LATER. 

It is just two years since that triple wedding, when 
six people were made as happy as it is possible to be in 
this world, Aunt Brier and Mr. Atkins, Aleck and Thea, 
and Grant and myself, on whom no shadow has fallen 
since I became Grant’s wife and basked in the fullness 
of his love, which grows stronger and more tender as 
the days go on. He is now studying hard in a law-office 
in town, determined to fit himself for something useful, 
and if possible atone for the selfish, useless life he led 
before we were married. We spent a year abroad, 
going everywhere with Aleck and Thea, and staying a 
few weeks in Mr. Atkins’s elegant villa near Alexandria, 


TWO YEARS LATER. 


337 


where everything is done in the most luxurious and Ori- 
ental manner, and Aunt Brier was a very queen among 
her subjects. When the year of travel was ended we 
came back to Morton Park, where a royal welcome 
awaited us, and where Aunt Kizzy Took me in her arms 
and cried over me a little and then led me to my room, 
or rather rooms, one of which was the Glory Hole, 
which had been fitted up as a boudoir, or dressing-room, 
while the large, airy chamber adjacent, where Thea 
used to sleep, had also been thoroughly repaired and 
refurnished, and was given to us in place of Grant’s old 
room. 

And here this Christmas morning I am finishing my 
journal, in which I have recorded so much of my life, — 
more, in fact, than I care to read. I wish 1 had left out 
a good deal about Aunt Kizzy. She is greatly changed 
from the grim woman who held me at arm’s length 
when I first came from school, and of whom I stood in 
fear. We have talked that all over, and made it up, and 
every day she gives me some new proof of her affection. 
But the greatest transformation in her came some weeks 
ago, with the advent of a little boy, who is sleeping in 
his crib, with a yellow-turbaned negress keeping watch 
over him. Aunt Kizzy calls herself his grandmother, and 
tends him more, if possible, than the nurse. Grant la- 
ments that it is not a girl, so as to bear some one or two 
of the queer names of its ancestors. But I am glad it is 
a boy, and next Sunday it will be christened Gerold 
Douglas, for my father and grandfather, and Aleck and 
Thea will stand for it. They have bought a beautiful 
place a little out of town and have settled down into a 
regular Darby and Joan, wholly satisfied with each 
Other and lacking nothing to make them perfectly 


338 


THE HEPBURN LINE. 


happy. Aunt Brier and Mr. Atkins are also here, stay- 
ing in the house until spring, when they will build on a 
part of the Morton estate which Mr. Atkins has bought 
of Grant. Oriental life did not suit Aunt Brier, and, as 
her slighest wish is sacred to her husband, he has 
brought her to her old home, where, when Aleck and 
Thea are with us, we make a very merry party, talking 
of all we have seen in Europe, and sometimes of the 
Hepburn line, which Aleck says I straightened, — always 
insisting, however, that it did not need straightening, 
and that the obnoxious clause in the lease would never 
have stood the test of the law. Whether it would or not, 
I do not know, as we have never inquired. 


MILDRED’S AMBITION. 


CHAPTER I. 

MILDRED. 

The time was a hot morning in July, the place one of 
those little mountain towns between Albany and Pitts- 
field, and the scene opens in a farm-house kitchen, 
where Mildred Leach was seated upon the doorstep 
shelling peas, with her feet braced against the door- 
jamb to keep her baby brother, who was creeping on the 
floor, from tumbling out, and her little sister Bessie, 
who was standing outside, from coming in. On the bed 
in a room off the kitchen Mildred’s mother was lying 
with a headache, and both the kitchen and the bed-room 
smelled of camphor and vinegar, and the vegetables 
which were cooking on the stove and filling the house 
with the odor which made the girl faint and sick, as she 
leaned against the door-post and longed, as she always was 
longing, for some change in her monotonous life. Of 
the world outside the mountain town where she was 
born she knew very little, and that little she had learned 
from Hugh McGregor, the village doctor’s son, who 


uo 


mildrkd’s ambition. 


had been away to school, and seen the President and 
New York and a Cunarder as it came sailing up the har- 
bor. On his return home Hugh had narrated his 
adventures to Mildred, who listened with kindling eyes 
and flushed cheeks, exclaiming, when he finished, 
“Oh ! if I could see all that ; and I will some day. I 
shall not stay forever in old Rocky Point. I hate it.” 

Mildred was only thirteen, and not pretty, as girls 
usually are at that age. She was thin and sallow, and 
her great brown eyes were too large for her face, and 
her thick curly hair too heavy for her head. A mop her 
brother Tom called it, when trying to tease her ; and 
Mildred hated her hair and hated herself whenever she 
looked in the ten by twelve glass in her room, and 
never dreamed of the wonderful beauty which later on 
she would develop, when her face and form were 
rounded out, her sallow complexion cleared, and her 
hair subdued and softened into a mass of waves and 
curls. Her father, John Leach, was a poor farmer, who, 
although he owned the house in which he lived, to- 
gether with a few acres of stony land around it, was in 
one sense a tenant of Mr. Giles Thornton, the propri- 
etor of Thornton Park, for he rented land enough of 
him to eke out his slender income. To Mildred, Thorn- 
ton Park was a Paradise, and nothing she had ever read 
or heard of equaled it in her estimation, and many a 
night when she should have been asleep she stood at 
her window, looking off in the distance at the turrets 
and towers of the beautiful place which elicited admira- 
tion from people much older than herself. To live 
there would be perfect bliss, she thought, even though 
she were as great an invalid as its mistress, and as sickly 
and helpless as little Alice, the only daughter of the 


Mildred. 


341 


house. Against her own humble surroundings Mildred 
was in hot rebellion, and was always planning for im- 
provement and change, not only for herself, but for her 
family, whom she loved devotedly, and to whom she 
was giving all the strength of her young life. Mrs. 
Leach was a martyr to headaches, which frequently 
kept her in bed for days, during which time the care 
and the work fell upon Mildred, whose shoulders were 
too slender for the burden they bore. 

“ But it will be different some time,” she was think- 
ing on that hot July morning when she sat shelling 
peas, sometimes kissing Charlie, whose fat hands were 
either making havoc with the pods or pulling her hair, 
and sometimes scolding Bessie for chewing her bonnet 
strings and soiling her clean apron. 

“ You must look nice when Mrs. Thornton goes by,” 
she said, for Mrs. Thornton was expected from New 
York that day, and Mildred was watching for the return 
of the carriage, which half an hour before had passed 
on its way to the station. 

And very soon it came in sight, — a handsome 
barouche, drawn by two shining black horses, with a 
long-coated driver on the box, and Mr. and Mrs. Thorn- 
ton and the two children inside, — Gerard, a dark, hand- 
some boy of eleven, and Alice, a sickly little girl, with 
some spinal trouble which kept her from walking or 
playing as other children did. Leaning back upon 
cushions was Mrs. Thornton, — her face very pale, and 
her eyes closed, while opposite her, with his gold-headed 
cane in his hand, was Mr. Thornton, — a tall, handsome 
man who carried himself as grandly as if the blood of a 
hundred kings was flowing in his veins. He did not see 
the children on the doorsteps, until Gerard, in response 


Mildred’s ambition. 


342 

to a nod from Mildred, lifted his cap, while Alice ieaned 
eagerly forward and said, “Look, mamma, there’s Milly 
and Bessie and the baby. Hello, Milly. I’ve corned 
back then he said quickly, “ Allie, be quiet ; and you 
Gerard, why do you lift your cap to such people ? It’s 
not necessary and in these few words was embodied 
tjie character of the man. 

Courteous to his equals, but proud and haughty to 
his inferiors, with an implicit belief in the Thorntons 
and no belief at all in such people as the Leaches, or in- 
deed in many of the citizens of Rocky Point, where he 
owned, or held mortgages on, half the smaller premises. 
The world was made for him, and he was Giles Thorn- 
ton, of English extraction on his father’s side and 
Southern blood on his mother’s, and in his pride and 
pomposity he went on past the old red farm-house, 
while Mildred sat for a moment looking after the car- 
riage and envying its occupants. 

“Oh, if I were rich, like Mrs. Thornton, and could 
wear silks and jewels ; and I will, some day,” she said, 
with a far-off look in her eyes, as if she were seeing the 
future and what it held for her. “ Yes, I will be rich, 
no matter what it costs,” she continued, “ and people 
shall envy me, and I’ll make father and mother so 
happy ? and you, Charlie ” 

Here she stopped, and parting the curls from her 
baby brother’s brow, looked earnestly into his blue eyes ; 
then went on, “you shall have a golden crown, and you, 
Bessie darling, shall have,— shall have, — Gerard Thorn- 
ton himself, if you want him.” 

“ And I lame Alice ?” asked a cheery voice, as there 
bounded into the kitchen a ten year old lad, who, with 


MlLDREIj. S43 

Ills naked feet, sunny face and torn straw hat, might 
have stood for Whittier’s barefoot boy. 

“Oh, Tom,” Mildred cried, “I’m glad you’ve come. 
Won’t you pick up the pods while I get the peas into 
the pot? It’s almost noon, and I’ve got the table td 
set.” 

Before Tom could reply, another voice called out, 
“ You have given Gerard to Bessie and Alice to Toni ; 
now what am I to have, Miss Prophetess ?” 

The speaker was a fair-haired youth of seventeen* 
with a slight Scotch accent and a frank, open, genial 
face, such as strangers always trust. He had stopped a 
moment at the corner of the house to pick a rose for 
Mildred, and hearing her prophecies, sauntered leisurely 
to the doorstep, where he sat down, and fanning himself 
with his big hat, asked what she had for him. 

“ Nothing, Hugh McGregor,” Mildred replied, with a 
little flush on her cheek. “ Nothing but that and she 
tossed him a peapod she had picked from the floor. 

“ Thanks,” Hugh said, catching the pod in his hand. 
“ There are two peas in it yet, a big and a little one. I 
am the big, you are the little, and I’m going to keep 
them and see which hardens first, you or I.” 

“ What a fool you are,” Mildred said, with increased 
color on her cheek, while Hugh pocketed the pod and 
went on : “A crown for Charlie, Gerard for Bessie, 
Allie for Tom, a peapod for me, and what for you, my 
darling ?” 

“ I am not your darling,” Mildred answered quickly ; 
“and I’m going to be, — mistress of Thornton Park,” 
she added, after a little hesitancy, while Hugh rejoined : 
“As you have given Gerard to Bessie, I don’t see how 
you’ll bring it about, unless Mrs. Thornton dies, a 


344 Mildred’s ambition. 

thing not unlikely, and you marry that big-feeling man, 
whom you say you hate because he turned you from his 
premises. Have you forgotten that ?” 

Mildred had not forgotten it, and her face was scar- 
let as she recalled the time the past summer when, 
wishing to buy a dress for Charlie, then six months old, 
she had gone into one of Mr. Thornton’s pastures after 
huckleberries, which grew there so abundantly, and 
which found a ready market at the groceries in town. 
In Rocky Point, berries were considered public prop- 
erty, and she had no thought that she was trespassing 
until a voice close to her said, “ What are you doing 
here? Begone, before I have you arrested.” 

In great alarm Mildred had seized her ten quart pail, 
which was nearly full, and hurried away, never ventur- 
ing again upon the forbidden ground. 

“Yes, I remember it,” she said, “but that wouldn’t 
keep me from being mistress of the Park, if I had a 
chance and he wasn’t there. Wouldn’t I make a good 
one ?” 

“ Ye-es,” Hugh answered slowly, as he looked her 
over from her head to her feet. “ But you’ll have to 
grow taller and fill out some, and do something with 
that snarly pate of yours, which looks this morning like 
an oven broom,” and with this thrust at her bushy hair 
Hugh disappeared from the door just in time to escape 
the dipper of water which went splashing after him. 

“ Oven broom, indeed !” Mildred said indignantly, 
with a pull at the broom ; “ I wonder if I am to blame 
for my hair. I hate it !” 

This was Mildred’s favorite expression, and there 
were but few things to which she had not applied it. 
But most of all she hated her humble home and the 


AT THORNTON PARK. 


345 


boiled dinner she put upon the table just as the clock 
struck twelve, wondering as she did so if they knew 
what such a dish was at Thornton Park, and what they 
vere having there that day. 


CHAPTER II. 

AT THORNTON PARK. 

Meanwhile the barouche had stopped under the 
grand archway at the side entrance of the Park house, 
where a host of servants was in waiting ; the butler, 
the housekeeper, the cook, the laundress, the maids, the 
gardener and groom and several more, for, aping his 
English ancestry and the custom of his mother’s South- 
ern home before the war, Mr. Thornton kept about him 
a retinue of servants with whom he was very popular. 
He paid them well and fed them well, and while re- 
quiring from them the utmost deference, was kind in 
every way, and they came crowding around him with 
words of welcome and offers of assistance. Mrs. Thorn- 
ton went at once to her room, while Alice was taken 
possession of by her nurse, who had come from the city 
the night before, and who soon had her charge in a 
little willow carriage, drawing her around the grounds. 
Gerard, who was a quiet, studious boy, went to the 
library, while Mr. Thornton, after seeing that his wife 
was comfortable, joined his little daughter, whose love 
for her country home he knew, and to whom he said, 
“ I suppose you are quite happy now ?” 


U6 


MiLl)fcED*S AMBiTtotf. 


“Yes, papa,” she replied, “only I want somebody to 
play with me. Ann is too big. I want Milly Leach. 
She was so nice to me last summer. Can’t I have her, 
papa ?” 

For Alice to want a thing was for her to have it, if 
possession were possible, and her father answered her : 

“ Yes, daughter, you shall have her,” without knowing 
at all who Milly Leach was. But Alice explained that 
she was the girl who lived in the little red house where 
Ann had often taken her the summer before to play 
with Tom and Bessie. And so it came about that Ann 
was sent that afternoon to the farm house with a request 
from Mr. Thornton that Mildred should come for the 
summer and amuse his daughter. Three dollars a week 
was the remuneration offered, for he always held out a 
golden bait when the fish was doubtful, as he 
thought it might be in this case. Mrs. Leach was 
better, and sitting up while Mildred combed and brushed 
the hair much like her own, except that it was softer 
and smoother, because it had more care and there was 
less of it. 

“ Oh, mother,” she cried, when Ann made her 
errand known, “ can’t I go ? Three dollars a week ! 
Only think, what a lot ; and I’ll give it all to yon, and 
you can get that pretty French calico at Mr. Overton’s 
store. May I go ?” 

“ Who will do the work when I’m sick ?”_Mrs. Leach 
asked, herself a good deal moved by the three dollars a 
week, which seemed a fortune to her. 

“ I guess they’ll let me come home when you have 
a headache,” Milly pleaded, and on this condition it 
was finally arranged that she should go to the Park for 
£ time at least, and two days after we saw her shelling 


At THOfeNTO# t’ARlt. 


U? 

peas and longing for a change, the change came and 
she started out on her career in her best gingham dress 
and white apron, with her small satchel of clothes in her 
hand and a great lump in her throat as she kissed her 
mother and Bessie and Charlie, and would have kissed 
Tom if he had not disappeared with a don’t-care air 
and a watery look in his eyes, which he wiped with his 
checked shirt sleeve, and then, boy-like, threw a green 
apple after his sister, hiding behind the tree when she 
looked around to see whence it came. 

It was a lovely morning, and Thornton Park lay fair 
and beautiful in the distance as she walked rapidly on 
until a familiar whistle stopped her and she saw Hugh 
hurrying across the fields and waving his hat to her. 

“ Hello !” he said, as he came to her side, “ I nearly 
broke my neck, to catch you. And so you are 
going to be a hired girl. Let me carry that satchel,’' 
and he took it from her while she answered hotly, “ I 
ain’t a hired girl. I’m Allie’s little friend ; that’s what 
she said when she came with Ann last night and we 
made the bargain, and I’m to have three dollars a 
week.” 

“Three dollars a week! That is big,” Hugh said, 
staggered a little at the price. “ But, I say, don’t go so 
fast. Let’s sit down awhile and talk and seating him- 
self upon a log, with Mildred beside him and the 
satchel at his feet, he went on : “ Milly, I don’t want 
you to go to Thornton Park. Won’t you give it up ? 
Seems as if I was losing you.” 

« You never had me to lose,” was the girl’s reply, and 
Hugh continued : 

“ That’s so ; but I mean that I like you better than any 


348 Mildred’s ambition. 

girl I ever knew ; like you just as I should my sister if 
I had one.” 

Here Milly elevated her eyebrows a little, while 
Hugh went on : “ And I don’t want you to go to that 
fine place and learn to despise us all, and the old home 
by the brook.” 

“ I shall never do that, for I love father and mother 
and Tom and Bessie and Charlie better than I do my- 
self. I’d die for them, but I do hate the old house 
and the poverty and work, and I mean to be a grand 
lady and rich, and then I’ll help them all, and you, too, 
if you’ll let me.” 

“ I don’t need your help, and I don’t want to see you 
a grand lady, and I don’t want you to be snubbed by 
that proud Thornton,” Hugh replied, and Milly 
answered quickly, with short, emphatic nods of her 
head : 

“ I sha’n’t be snubbed by him, for if he sasses me I 
shall sass him. I’ve made up my mind to that.” 

“ And when you do may I be there to hear ; but you 
are a brick, any way,” was Hugh’s laughing rejoinder, 
and as Milly had risen to her feet, he, too, arose, and 
taking up the satchel walked with her to the Park gate, 
where he said good-bye, but called to her after a min- 
ute, “ 1 say, Milly, I have that pea-pod yet, and you are 
beginning to wilt, but I am as plump as ever.” 

“ Pshaw !” was Mildred’s scornful reply, as she hur- 
ried on through the Park, while Hugh walked slowly 
down the road, wishing he had money and could give 
it all to Milly. „ 

“ But I shall never be rich,” he said to himself, “ even 
if I’m a lawyer as I mean to be, for only dishonest law- 


AT THORNTON PARK. 


349 


yers make money, they say, and I sha’n’t be a cheat if I 
never make a cent.” 

Meanwhile Milly had reached the house, which had 
always impressed her with a good deal of awe, it was so 
stately and grand. Going up to the front door she was 
about to ring, when the same voice which had ordered 
her from the berry pasture, said to her rather sharply : 

“ What are you doing here, little girl ?” 

“ I’m Mildred Leach, and I’ve come to be Allie’s 
little friend,” Mildred answered, facing the speaker 
squarely, with her satchel in both hands. 

“ Oh, yes ; I know, but go to the side door, and say 
Miss Alice instead of Allie,” Mr. Thornton replied as he 
began to puff at his cigar. 

Here was sass at the outset, and remembering her 
promise to Hugh, Milly gave a vigorous pull at the bell, 
saying as she did so : 

“ I sha’n’t call her Miss, and I shall go into the front 
door, or I sha’n’t stay. I ain’t dirt !” 

This speech was so astounding and unexpected, that 
instead of resenting it, Mr. Thornton laughed aloud, 
and as a servant just then came to the door, he saun- 
tered away, saying to himself : 

“ Plucky, by Jove ; but if she suits Allie, I don’t 
care.” 

If Mr. Thornton had a redeeming trait it was his love 
for his wife and children, especially little Alice, for 
whom he would sacrifice everything, even his pride, 
which is saying a great deal, and when, an hour later, he 
found her in the Park with Mildred at her side making 
dandelion curls for her, he was very gracious and 
friendly, asking her how old she was, and giving her 
numerous charges with regard to his daughter. Then 


350 


Mildred’s ambition. 


he went away, while Mildred looked admiringly after 
him, thinking how handsome he was in his city clothes, 
and how different he was from her father. 

“ It’s because he’s rich and has money. I mean to 
have some, too,” she thought, and with the seeds of 
ambition taking deeper and deeper root, she began her 
life at Thornton Park, where she soon became a great 
favorite, not only with Alice, but with Mrs. Thornton, 
to whom she was almost as necessary as to Alice her- 
self. 

Regularly every Saturday night her three dollars 
were paid to her, and as regularly every Sunday morn- 
ing she took them home, where they were very accept- 
able, for Mr. Leach had not the least idea of thrift, and 
his daughter’s wages tided over many an ugly gap in 
the household economy. Mrs. Leach had the French 
calico gown, and Charlie a pair of red shoes, and Bessie 
a new white frock, and Tom a new straw hat, but for 
all that they missed Mildred everywhere, she was so 
helpful and willing, even when rebelling most against 
her condition, and when in September Mrs. Thornton 
proposed that she should go with them to New York, 
Mrs. Leach refused so decidedly that the wages were 
at once doubled, and six dollars a week offered in place 
of three. Money was nothing to Mrs. Thornton, and as 
what she set her mind upon she usually managed to get, 
she succeeded in this, and when in October the family 
returned to the city, Mildred went with them, very 
smart in the new suit Mrs. Thornton had given her, 
and very red about the eyes from the tears she had 
shed when saying good-bye to her home. 

“ If I’d known I should feel this way, I believe I 
wouldn’t have gone/’ she had thought, as she went 


AT THORNTON PARK. 


o i> 

from room to room with Charlie in her arms, Bes- 
sie holding her hand, and Tom following in the rear, 
whistling The girl I left behind me/’ and trying to 
-seem very brave. 

On a bench by the brook which ran back of the house 
Mildred at last sat down with Charlie in her lap, and 
looking at the water running so fast at her feet, won- 
dered if she should ever see it again, and where Hugh 
was that he did not come to say good-bye. She had a 
little package for him, and when at last he appeared, 
and leaping across the brook, sat down beside her, she 
gave it to him, and said with a forced laugh : 

“ A splint from the oven broom. You used to ask 
, for one, and here ’tis.” 

He knew what she meant, and opening the paper saw 
one of her dark curls. 

“ Thanks, Milly,” he said, with a lump in his throat. 
“ I’ll keep it, and the peas, too, till you come back. 
When will that be ?” 

<k I don’t know ; next summer, most likely ; though 
perhaps I shall stay away until I’m such a fine lady that 
you won’t know me. I’m to study with Allie’s gover- 
ness and learn everything, so as to teach some time,” she 
said. 

“ Here’s the carriage,” Tom called round the corner, 
and kissing Charlie and Bessie and Tom, who did not 
resist her now, and crying on her mother’s neck, and 
wringing her father’s hard hand and saying good-bye to 
Hugh, she went out from the home where for many a 
long year she was not seen again. 


352 


Mildred’s ambition. 


CHAPTER III. 

INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN YEARS. 

At first the inmates of the farmhouse missed the 
young girl sadly ; but they gradually learned to get on 
very well without her, and when in the spring word came 
that Mrs. Thornton was going to Europe and wished 
to take Mildred with her, offering as an inducement a 
sum far beyond what they knew the girl's services were 
worth, and when Mildred, too, joined her entreaties with 
Mrs. Thornton’s, telling of the advantage the foreign 
life would be to her, as she was to share in Alice’s 
instruction, the father and mother consented, with no 
thought, however, that she would not return within the 
year. When Hugh heard of it he went alone into the 
woods, and sitting down near the chestnut tree, where 
he and Milly had often gathered the brown nuts to- 
gether, thought the matter out in his plain, practical 
way. 

“ That ends it with Milly,” he said. “ Europe will 
turn her head, and if she ever comes home she will 
despise us more than ever and me most of all, with my 
gawky manners and big hands and feet.” 

Then, taking from his pocket a little box, he opened 
it carefully, and removing a fold of paper looked wist- 
fully at the contents. A curl of dark-brown hair and a 
gray pod with two peas inside, — one shriveled and 
harder than the other, and as it seemed to him harder 
and more shriveled than when he last looked at it. 

(< It’s just as I thought it would be,” he said, “ She 


INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN YEARS. 


353 


will grow away from me with her French and German 
and foreign ways, unless I grow with her,” and for the 
first time in his life Hugh felt the stirring of a genuine 
and laudable ambition. “ I will make something of 
myself,” he said. “ I have it in me, I know.” 

The curl and the peas were put away, and from that 
time forward Hugh’s career was onward and upward, 
first to school in Pittsfield, then to college at Amherst, 
then to a law office in Albany, and then ten years later 
back to Rocky Point, where he devoted himself to his 
profession and won golden laurels as the most honora- 
ble and prominent lawyer in all the mountain district. 
Rocky Point had had a boom in the meantime, and now 
spread itself over the hillside and across the pasture 
land, almost to the red farm house which stood by the 
running brook, its exterior a little changed, as blinds 
had been added and an extra room with a bow window, 
which looked toward the village and the brook. And 
here on summer mornings fifteen years after Mildred 
went awa) r a pale-faced woman sat, with her hair now 
white as snow, combed smoothly back from her brow, 
her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes turned towards 
the window through which she knew the sun was shin- 
ing brightly, although she could not see it, for Mrs. 
Leach was blind. Headache and hereditary disease had 
done their work, and when her husband died she could 
not see his face, on which her tears fell so fast. For 
more than two years he had been lying in the cemetery 
up the mountain road, and beside his grave was another 
and a shorter one, nearly level with the ground, for it 
was twelve years since Charlie died and won the golden 
crown which Milly had promised him that day when the 
spirit of prophecy was upon her, 


354 


Mildred’s ambition. 


During all these years Mildred had never come back 
to the old home which bore so many proofs of her lov- 
ing remembrance, for every dollar she could spare from 
her liberal allowance was sent* to her people. Mrs. 
Thornton had died in Paris, where Alice was so far 
cured of her spinal trouble that only a slight limp told 
that she had ever been lame. At the time of Mrs. 
Thornton’s death there was staying in the same hotel 
an English lady, a widow, who had recently lost her 
only daughter, a girl about Mildred’s age, with some- 
thing of Mildred’s look in her eyes. To this lady, 
whose name was Mrs. Gardner, Mildred had in her 
helpful way rendered many little services and made 
herself so agreeable that when Mrs. Thornton died 
the lady offered to take her as her companion and pos- 
sibly adopted daughter, if the girl proved all she hoped 
she might. When this proposal was made to Mr. 
Thornton he neither assented nor objected. The girl 
could do as she pleased, he said, and as she pleased to 
go she went, sorry to leave Alice, but glad to escape 
from the father, whose utter indifference and apparent 
forgetfulness of her presence in his family, had chafed 
and offended her. Rude he had never been to her, but 
she might have been a mere machine, so far as he had 
any interest in or care for her. She was simply a ser- 
vant, whose name he scarcely remembered, and of 
whose family he knew very little when Mrs. Gardner 
questioned him of them. 

“ Very poor and very common ; such as would be 
called peasantry on the continent,” he said, and Mil- 
dred, who accidentally overheard the remark, felt the 
hot blood stain her face and throb through her veins as 
she registered a vow that this proud, cold man, who 


INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN YEARS. 


355 


likened her to a peasant, should some day hold a differ- 
ent opinion of her. 

She was nearly fifteen now, and older than her years 
with her besetting sin, ambition, intensified by her life 
abroad, and as she saw, in the position which Mrs. 
Gardner offered her an added round to the ladder she 
was climbing, she took it unhesitatingly, and went with 
her to Switzerland, from which place she wrote to her 
mother, asking pardon if she had done wrong, and en- 
closing fifty pounds which she had been saving for her. 

“ Taken the bits in her teeth,” was Hugh’s comment, 
when he heard of it, while Mr. and Mrs. Leach 
mourned over their wayward daughter, whose loving 
letters, however, and substantial gifts made some 
amends for her protracted absence. 

She had gone with Mrs. Gardner as a companion, but 
grew so rapidly into favor that the lady began at last 
to call her daughter, and when she found that her 
middle name was Frances, to address her as Fanny, the 
name of the little girl she had lost, and to register her 
as Miss Gardner. To this Mildred at first objected as 
something not quite honorable, but when she saw how 
much more attention Fanny Gardner received than 
Mildred Leach had done, she gave up the point, and 
became so accustomed to her new name that the sound 
of the old would have seemed strange to her had she 
heard it spoken. Of the change, however, she never 
told her mother, and seldom said much of Mrs. Gardner, 
except that she was kind and rich and handsome, with 
many suitors for her hand, and when at last she wrote 
that the lady had married a Mr. Harwood, and spoke of 
her ever after as Mrs. Harwood, the name Gardner 
passed in time entirely from the minds of both Mr. and 


356 


MILDRED S AMBITION. 


Mrs. Leach, who, being very human, began to feel a 
pride in the fact that they had a daughter abroad, 
who was growing into a fine lady and could speak both 
German and French. 

From point to point Mildred traveled with the Har- 
woods, passing always as Mrs. Harwood’s adopted 
daughter, which she was to all intents and purposes. 
And in a way she was very happy, although at times 
there came over her such a longing for home that she 
was half resolved to give up all her grandeur and go 
back to the life she had so detested. They were at a 
villa on the Rhine, not very far from Constance, when 
she heard of Charlie’s death, and burying her face in 
the soft grass of the terrace she sobbed as if her heart 
were broken. 

“ Oh, Charlie,” she moaned, “ dead, and I not there 
to see you. I never dreamed that you would die ; and 
I meant to do so much for you when you were older. 
I wish I had never left you, Charlie, my darling.” 

Could Mildred have had her way she would have gone 
home then, but Mrs. Harwood would not permit it, and 
so the years went on until in Egypt she heard of her 
father’s death, and that her mother was blind. It was 
Tom who wrote her the news, which he did not break 
very gently, for in a way he resented his sister’s long 
absence, and let her know that he did. 

“ Not that we really need you,” he wrote, “ for Bessie 
sees to the house, which is fixed up a good deal, thanks 
to you and mother’s Uncle Silas. Did you ever hear of 
him ? I scarcely had until he died last year and left us 
five thousand dollars, which makes us quite rich, We 
have some blinds and a new room with a bay window 
and a girl to do the work ; so, you see, we are very fine, 


Incidents of fif'I'eFn years. 35? 

but mother is always fretting for you, and more since 
she was blind, lamenting that she can never see your 
face again. Should we know you, I wonder ? I guess 
not, it is so long since you went away, thirteen years. 
Why, you are twenty-six ! Almost an old maid, and I 
suppose an awful swell, with your French and German 
and Italian. Bessie can speak French a little. She is 
eighteen, and the handsomest girl you ever saw, unless 
it is Alice Thornton, whose back is straight as a string. 
She comes to Thornton Park every summer with Ger- 
ard, and when she isn’t here with Bessie, Bessie is there 
with her. Mr. Thornton is in town sometimes, high and 
mighty as ever, with a face as black as thunder when 
he sees Gerard talking French to Bessie, for it was of 
him she learned it. I have been away to the Academy 
several quarters, and would like to go to college, but 
shall have to give that up, now father is dead. Did I 
tell you I was reading law with Hugh ? He is a big 
man every way, stands six feet in his slippers, and head 
and shoulders above every lawyer in these parts. Why, 
they sometimes send for him to go to Albany to try a 
suit. I used to think he was sweet on you, but he has 
not mentioned you for a long time, except when mother 
got blind, and then he said, ‘ Milly ought to be here.’ 
But don’t fret ; we get along well enough, and you 
wouldn’t be happy with us. “ Yours, 

“ Tom.” 

When Mildred read this letter she made up her mind 
to go home at any cost, and would have done so, if on 
her return from Naples she had not been stricken down 
with a malarial fever, which kept her an invalid for 
months, and when she recovered from it there had come 


35$ 


Mildred's ambition. 


into her life a new excitement which absorbed every 
other thought, and led finally to a result without which 
this story would never have been written. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AT THE FARM HOUSE. 

It was fifteen years since- Milly Leach sat shelling 
peas on the doorstep where now two young girls were 
sitting, one listening to and the other reading a letter 
which evidently excited and agitated her greatly. It 
was as follows : 


“ Langham’s, London, May — , 18 — . 

“ Dear Alice, — “ You will probably be surprised to 
hear that I am going to be married to a Miss Fanny Gard- 
ner, whom I first met in Florence. She is twenty-seven 
or twenty-eight, and the most beautiful woman I ever 
saw, and good as she is beautiful. You are sure to like 
her. The ceremony takes place at church in Lon- 

don, and after the wedding breakfast at her mother’s 
town house we shall go for a short time to Wales and 
Ireland and then sail for home. 

“ I suppose you and Gerard are at the Park, or will 
be soon, and I want you to see that everything is in 
order. We shall occupy the suite of rooms on the south 
side of the house instead of the east, and I’d like to have 
them refurnished throughout, and will leave everything 
to your good taste, only suggesting that although Miss 
Gardner’s hair is rather a peculiar color, — golden brown, 
some might call it, — she is not a blonde ; neither is she 


AT THE FARM HOUSE. 


350 


a brunette ; and such tints as soft French grays and 
pinks will suit her better than blue. The wedding day 
is fixed for June — . Shall telegraph as soon as we 
reach New York, and possibly write you before. 

“ Your loving father, 

“Giles Thornton.” 

“ Oh — h,” and the girl who was listening drew a long 
breath. “ Oh — h ! Going to be married, — to Fanny 
Gardner. That’s a pretty name. She’s English, I sup- 
pose. I guess you’ll like her and Bessie put her hand, 
half pityingly, half caressingly upon the arm of her 
friend, down whose cheeks two great tears were rolling. 

“Yes, ’’Alice replied; “but it is so sudden, and I’m 
thinking of mother. I wonder what Gerard will say. 
There he is now. Oh, Gerard,” she called, as a young 
man came through the gate and seating himself upon a 
lower step took Bessie’s hand in his and held it while 
the bright blush on her lovety face told what he was to 
her. 

“What’s the matter, Allie ?” he said to his sister. 
“ You look solemn as a graveyard.” 

“ Papa is going to be married,” Alice replied, with a 
sob. 

“ Wha — at !” and Gerard started to his feet. “ Father 
married ! Why, he is nearly fifty years old. Let me 
see,” — and taking the letter from Alice he read it aloud, 
commenting as he read. “ Twenty-seven or twenty- 
eight ; not much older than I am, for I am twenty-five ; 
quite too young for me to call her mother. ‘ The most 
beautiful woman I ever saw.’ He must he hard hit. 

‘ Ceremony takes place ’ Why, girls, it’s to-day! 

It’s past. I congratulate you, Allie, on a stepmother 


360 


Mildred’s ambition. 


and here’s to her health from her son and stooping 
over Bessie he kissed her before she could remonstrate. 

Just then Hugh McGregor came up the walk, and 
taking off his straw hat wiped the perspiration from 
his face, while he stood for a moment surveying the 
group before him with a quizzical smile upon his lips. 
Ffteen years had changed Hugh from the tall, awk- 
ward boy of seventeen into the taller, less awkward 
man of thirty-two, who, having mingled a good deal 
with the world, had acquired much of the ease and 
polish which such mingling brings. Handsome he 
could not be called ; there was too much of the rugged 
Scotch in him for that, but he had something better 
than beauty in his frank, honest face and kindly blue 
eyes, which bespoke the man who could be trusted to 
the death and never betray the trust. He, too, had 
received a letter from Mr. Thornton, whose business in 
Rocky Point he had in charge, and after reading it had 
gone to Thornton Park with the news. Finding both 
Alice and Gerard absent, he had followed on to the 
farm house where he was sure they were. 

“ I see you know it,” he said, pointing to the letter in 
Gerard’s hand. I have heard from your father and 
came to tell you. Did you suspect this at all ?” 

“ No,” Alice replied ; “ he has never written a word of 
any Miss Gardner. I wonder who she is.” 

“ I don’t know,” Hugh answered slowly, while there 
swept over him the same sensation he had experienced 
when he first saw the name in Mr. Thornton’s letter. 

It did not seem quite new, and he repeated it over 
and over again but did not associate it with Mildred 
although she was often in his mind, more as a pleasant 
memory now, perhaps, for the feelings of the man were 


AT THE FARM HOUSE. 


361 


Hot quite what the boy’s had been, and in one sense 
Milly had dropped out of his life. When she first went 
away, and he was in school, everything was done with 
a direct reference to making of himself something of 
which Milly would be proud when she came back. 
But Milly had not come back, and the years had crept 
on and he was a man honored among men, and in his 
busy life had but little leisure for thought beyond his 
business. It was seldom now that he looked at the 
dark brown curl, or the little pea in the pod, hard as 
a bullet, and shriveled almost to nothing. But when 
he did he always thought of the summer day years 
ago and the young girl on the steps and the sound of 
the brook gurgling over the stones as it ran under the 
little bridge. And it all came back to him now, with 
news of Mr. Thornton’s bride, though why it should he 
could not tell. He only knew that Milly was haunting 
him that morning with strange persistency, and his first 
question to Bessie was,“ When did you hear from your 
sister ?” 

“ Last night. She is in London, or was, — but wrote 
she was going on a journey and then was coming home. 
I shall believe that when I see her. Mother has the let- 
ter, and will be glad to see you,” was Bessie’s reply, 
and Hugh went into the pleasant, sunny room where 
the blind woman was sitting, with her hands folded on 
her lap and a listening expression on her face. 

“Oh, -Hugh,” she exclaimed, “ I am glad you have 
come. I want to talk to you.” 

Straightening her widow’s cap, which was a little 
awry, as deftly as a woman could have done, he sat down 
beside her, while she continued, as she drew a letter 
from her bosom, where she always kept Milly’s last. 


m 


Mildred’s ambition. 


I heard from Milly last night. I am afraid she is not 
happy, but she is coming home by and by. She says so. 
Read it, please.” 

Taking the letter he began to read : 


“ London, May — , 18 — . 

“ Darling Mother : — “ I am in London, but shall not 
stay long, for I am going on a journey, and it may be 
weeks, if not months, before I can write you again. But 
don’t worry. If anything happens to me you will know 
it. I am quite well and — oh, mother, I never loved you 
as I do now or needed your prayers so much. Pray for 
me. I can’t pray for myself, but I’d give half my life 
to put my arms around your neck and look into your 
dear, blind eyes, which, if they could see, would not know 
me, I am so changed. My hair fell out when I was so 
sick in Naples, and is not the same color it used to be. 
Everything is different. Oh, if I could see you, and I 
shall in the fall, if I live. 

“ Give my love to Tom and Bessie, and tell Hugh, 

No, don’t tell him anything. God bless you, darling 
mother. Good-bye, 

" From 

“ Mildred F. Leach.” 


Hugh’s face was a study as he read this letter, which 
sounded like a cry for help from an aching heart. Was 
Milly unhappy, and if so, why ? he asked himself as he 
still held the letter with his eyes fixed upon the words 

“ Tell Hugh No, don’t tell him anything.” Did they 

mean that in her trouble she had for a moment turned 
to him, he wondered, but quickly put that thought 
aside. She had been too long silent to think of him 
now ; and he was content that it should be so. His lik- 
ing for her had been but a boy’s fancy for a little girl, 


at the farm house. 


363 


he reasoned, and yet, as he held the letter in his hand, 
it seemed to bring Milly very near to him, and he saw 
her plainly as she looked when entering Thornton Park 
that morning so long ago. “ I felt I was losing her 
then. I am sure of it now,” he was thinking, when Mrs. 
Leach asked what he thought of Milly’s letter, and 
where he supposed she was going, and what ailed her. 

Hugh was Mrs. Leach’s confidant and oracle, whom 
she consulted on all occasions, and Tom himself was no 
kinder or tenderer in his manner to her than this big- 
hearted Scotchman, who soothed and comforted her now 
just as he always did, and then, without returning to the 
young people by the door he went out through the long 
window of Mrs. Leach’s room and off across the fields 
to the woods on the mountain side, where he sat down 
upon a rocky ledge to rest, wondering why the day was 
so oppressive, and why the words “ Tell Hugh ” should 
affect him so strangely, and why Mildred seemed so 
near to him that once he put up his hand with a feeling 
that he should touch her little hard, brown hand, 
browned and hardened with the work she hated so 
much. It was not often that he indulged in sentiment 
of this kind, but the spell was on him, and he sat bound 
by it until the whistle from the large shop had called 
the workmen from their dinners. Then he arose and 
went down the mountain road to his office, saying to 
himself : “ I wonder where she is to-day, when I am so 
impressed with a sense of her nearness that I believe 
she is thinking of me,” and with this comforting assur- 
ance, Hugh was very patient and kind to the old woman 
whose will he had changed a dozen times, and who 
came to have it changed again, without a thought of 
offering him any remuneration for his trouble. 


364 


Mildred’s ambition. 


Meantime the group by the door had been joined by 
Tom, who had grown into just the kind of man Whit- 
| tier’s barefoot boy would have grown into if he had 
! grown at all, — a frank, sunny- faced young man, whom 
every old woman and young girl liked, and whom one 
young girl loved with all the intensity of her nature, 
caring nothing that he was poor and one whom her 
proud father would scorn as a son-in-law. They were 
not exactly engaged, — for Alice said her father must be 
consulted first, and they were waiting for him, while 
Gerard, who could wait for nothing where Bessie was 
concerned, was drinking his fill of love in her blue eyes, 
with no thought or care as to whether his father would 
oppose him or not. 

“ Hello, you are all here,” Tom said, as he came 
round the corner and laid his hand on Allie’s shoulder ; 
then, glancing at her face, he continued : “ Why, you’ve 
been crying. What’s the matter, Allie ?” 

“ Oh, Tom, papa is married to-day, — to Fanny Gard- 
ner, an English girl with golden-brown hair and only 
twenty-eight years old and very handsome, he says. I 
know I shall hate her,” Alice sobbed, while Tom burst 
into a merry laugh. 

“ Your father married to a girl with golden-brown 
hair, which should be gray to match his, — that is a 
shame, by Jove. But, I say, Allie, I’m glad of it, for 
with a young wife at Thornton Park, you will be de trop , 
don’t you see?” And just as Gerard had done to Bes- 
sie so Tom did to Alice — kissed her pale face, with his 
best wishes to the bride, who was discussed pretty 
freely, from her name to the furniture of her room, 
which was to harmonize with the complexion of one 


THE BRIDE. 


365 


who was neither a blond nor a brunette, but very beau- 
tiful. 

For the next few weeks there was a great deal of 
bustle and excitement at Thornton Park, where Bessie 
went every day to talk over and assist in the arrange- 
ment of the bridal rooms, which were just completed 
when there came a telegram from New York saying 
that the newly married pair had arrived and would be 
home the following day. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE BRIDE. 

A Cunard steamer had landed its living freight at 
the wharf, where there was the usual scramble and con- 
fusion, as trunks and boxes were opened and angry, ex- 
cited women confronted with their spoils by relentless 
custom house officers, bent upon doing their duty, unless 
stopped by the means so frequently employed upon 
such occasions. Outside the long building stood an 
open carriage in which a lady sat, very simply but ele- 
gantly attired, with money, and Paris, and Worth show- 
ing in every article of her dress, from her round hat to 
her dainty boots, which could not be called small, for 
the feet they covered harmonized with the lady herself, 
who was tall and well proportioned, with a splendidly 
developed figure, on which anything looked well. There 
was a brilliant color in her cheeks, and her brown eyes 
were large and bright and beautiful, but very sad as 


366 


Mildred’s ambition. 


they looked upon the scenes around her without seem- 
ing to see anything. Nor did their expression change 
when she was joined by an elderly man, who, taking 
his seat beside her, said first to the driver : 

“ To the Windsor,” and then to her, “I was longer 
than I thought I should be ; those rascally officers gave 
me a world of trouble, but we shall soon be at the hotel 
now. Are you very tired ?” 

The question was asked very tenderly, for Giles 
Thornton was greatly in love with his bride of a few 
weeks. He had first met her in Florence, where she 
was recovering from the long illness which had lasted 
for months and made her weak as a child and almost as 
helpless. During her sickness her hair had fallen out, 
and owing to some unusual freak of nature it had come in 
much lighter than it was before and not so curl}’, al- 
though it still lay in wavy masses upon her head, and 
here and there coiled itself into rings around her fore- 
head. The Harwoods were staying at the same hotel 
with Mr. Thornton, and it was in the Boboli Gardens 
that he first met her as she was being wheeled in an 
invalid chair by her attendant. 

“ Will he know me ?” was her first thought when he 
was presented to her. 

But there was no fear of that, for Mildred Leach had 
passed as wholly out of his mind as if he had never 
seen her, and if she had not there was no danger of his 
recognizing the girl who had been his daughter’s com- 
panion in this lovely woman whose voice and manner 
and appearance were indicative of the refinement and 
cultivation to which for years she had been accustomed. 
To him she was Miss Gardner, an English girl, and 
during the half hour he walked by her chair in the gar- 


THE BRIDE. 


367 


dens, he felt his heart throb as it had never throbbed 
since he buried his wife. He had loved her devotedly 
and had never thought to fill her place until now when 
love did its work at first sight, and when two weeks 
later the Harwoods left Florence for Venice and Switz- 
erland, he was with them, to all intents and purposes 
Mildred’s lover, although he had not openly announced 
himself as such. 

To Mrs. Harwood Mildred had said, “ Don’t tell him 
who I am. I prefer to do that when the time comes. 
I am going to punish him for calling my father a peas- 
ant when you inquired about him. I heard him. I 
have not forgotton.” 

And so Mr. Thornton went blindly to his fate, which 
came one day in Ouchy in the grounds of the Beau 
Rivage, where Mildred was sitting alone, with her eyes 
fixed upon the lake and the mountains beyond, and her 
thoughts back in the old farm house, with her mother 
and Bessie and Tom and Hugh, of whom she had not 
heard a word for months. 

“ He has forgotten me,” she said to herself, “ and 
why shouldn’t he? I was never much to him, and 
yet ” 

She did not get any farther, for there was a footstep 
near ; some one was coming, and in a moment Mr. 
Thornton said to her, “ Alone, Miss Gardner, and 
dreaming ? May I dispel the dream and sit beside you 
a moment ?” 

Mildred knew then what was before her, as well as 
she did half an hour later, during which time Giles 
Thornton had laid himself and his fortune at her feet, 
and what was harder than all to meet, had made her be- 
lieve that he loyed her f She knew that he admired her. 


368 


Mildred's ambition. 


but she had not counted upon his love, which moved 
her a little, for Mr. Thornton was not a man to whom 
one could listen quietly when he was in earnest and re- 
solved to carry his point, and for an instant Mildred 
wavered. It was something to be Mrs. Giles Thornton, 
of Thornton Park, and ought to satisfy her ambition. 
With all her beauty and social advantages, she as yet 
had received no eligible offer. It was known that she 
had no money, and only an Italian count and the young- 
est son of an English earl had asked her hand in mar- 
riage. But both were poor, and one almost an imbecile, 
from whom she shrank in disgust. Mr. Thornton was 
different ; he was a gentleman of wealth and position, 
and as his wife she would for a part of the year live 
near her family. But with the thought of them there 
came the memory of an overgrown, awkward boy, 
whose feet and hands were so big that he never knew 
what to do with them, but whose heart was so much 
bigger than his feet and hands, that it bore down the 
scale and Mr. Thornton’s chance was lost for the time 
being. 

“Hugh may never be anything to me,” she thought, 
“ but I must see him before I give myself to any one.” 

Then turning to Mr. Thornton, she said, “ I thank 
you for your offer, which I believe is sincere, and that 
makes it harder for me to tell you what I must. Do 
you remember a girl, Mildred Leach, who was your 
daughter’s little friend, as she called herself, for she 
was as proud as you, and would not be a maid ?” 

“ Ye-es,” Mr. Thornton stammered, as he looked 
wistfully into the beautiful face confronting him so 
steadily. “ I had forgotton her entirely, but I remem- 
ber now. She left us to go with an English lady, a, 


THE BRIDE. 


369 


Mrs. Gardner. Why, that is Mrs. Harwood, — and, — and, 
—oh, you are not she !” 

“ Yes, I am,” was Mildred’s reply, and then very 
rapidly she told her story, not omitting her having over- 
heard him liken her parents to peasants when speaking 
of them to Mrs. Gardner. “ I determined then, she 
said, “ that if possible I would one day humble your 
pride, but if I have done so, it has not given me the 
satisfaction I thought it would, and I am sorry to cause 
you pain, for I believe, you were in earnest when you 
asked me to be your wife, which I can never be.” 

“No,” he answered slowly, like one who had received 
a blow from which he could not at once recover. “ No, 
you can never be my wife ; Mildred Leach ; it does not 
seem possible.” 

Then he arose and walked rapidly away, and when 
the evening boat left Ouchy for Geneva he was on it, 
going he cared but little where, if by going he could 
forget the past as connected with Mildred Leach. 

“ I cannot marry her familjV’he said many times dur- 
ing the next few months, when he was wandering every- 
where and vainly trying to forget her, for always before 
him was the face he had never admired so much as 
when he last saw it, flushed and pale by turns, with a 
wondrous light in the brown eyes where tears were 
gathering. “ If it were not for her family, or if I could 
separate her from them, I would not give her up,” he 
had often thought when in the following May he met 
her again at the Grand Hotel in Paris, where the Har- 
woods were stopping. 

He could not tell what it was which impressed him 
with the idea that she had changed her mind, as she 
came forward to meet him, saying she was glad to see 


370 


MILDRED S AMBITION. 


him, and adding that Mr. and Mrs. Harwood had gone 
to the opera. She seemed very quiet and absent 
minded at firsthand then rousing herself, said to him 
abruptly, “ You did not stop long enough in Ouchy for 
me to inquire after my family. You must have seen 
them often since I left home.” 

“ Yes, — no,” he answered in some embarrassment ; 
“ I have of course been to Thornton Park, but I do not 
remember much about them. I believe your father 
rents, or did rent, some land of me, but am not sure, as 
my agent attends to all that.” 

“My father is dead,” Mildred answered so sharply as 
to make him jump and color painfully, as if guilty of a 
misdemeanor in not knowing that her father was dead. 

“ I beg your pardon. I am very sorry. I, — yes, — am 
very sorry,” he began ; but she cut him short by say- 
ing, “ Do you know Hugh McGregor ?” 

“ Oh, yes. I know him well,” and Mr. Thornton 
brightened perceptibly. “ He is my lawyer, and at- 
tends to all my business in Rocky Point ; a fine fellow, 
— a very fine fellow. Do you know him ?” 

“ Yes,” Mildred replied, while her breath came heav- 
ily, “ I know him, and I hear he is to marry my sister 
Bessie.” 

“ Oh, indeed,” and as if memory had suddenly come 
back to him, Mr. Thornton seemed immensely relieved. 
“ I remember now, — Bessie Leach ; that's the girl I 
have sometimes seen with Alice. Gerard taught her 
French, — a very pretty girl. And Mr. McGregor is en- 
gaged to her ? I am very glad. Any girl might be 
proud to marry him.” 

Mildred made no reply to this, and Mr. Thornton 
never guessed the dreary emptiness of her soul as she 


THE BRIDE. 


371 


sat with her hands clasped tightly together, thinking of 
the man whom any girl would be proud to marry. A 
few months before she would have said that he was 
nothing more to her than the friend of her childhood, 
but she had recently learned her mistake, and that 
the thought of seeing him again was one of the pleas- 
antest anticipations of her home going. There had 
come to the hotel a Mr. and Mrs. Hayford from Amer- 
ica, who sometimes spent their summers at Rocky 
Point, where Mrs. Hayford was once a teacher. As 
Mildred had been her pupil, she remembered her at 
once, after hearing the name, and would have intro- 
duced herself but for a conversation accidentally over- 
heard between Mrs. Hayford and a friend who had also 
been at Rocky Point, and to whom she was retailing 
the news, first of New York and then of Rocky Point, 
where she had spent a few days in April prior to sail- 
ing. 

“ Do you remember that Hercules of a lawyer, Hugh 
McGregor, whom you admired so much ?” was asked. 
“ They say he is engaged to Bessie Leach, a girl much 
younger than himself, but very pretty, — beautiful, in 
fact, and 

Mildred heard no more, but hurried away, with an 
ache in her heart that she could not quite define. Tom 
had intimated that Gerard was interested in Bessie, and 
now Hugh was engaged to her. Well, it was all right, 
she said, and would not admit to herself how hard the 
blow had struck her and how she smarted under it. 
And it was just when the smart was at its keenest that 
Mr. Thornton came again across her path, more in love, 
if possible, than ever, and more intent upon making her 
his wife. He had fought a desperate battle with his 


372 


MILDRED S AMBITION. 


pride and had conquered it, and within twenty-four hours 
after meeting her in Paris, she had promised to marry 
him, and when her pledge was given she was conscious 
of a feeling of quiet and content which she had scarcely 
hoped for. In his character as lover Mr. Thornton did 
not seem at all like the man she had feared in her 
childhood, nor if he felt it did he gave the slightest 
sign that he was stooping from his high position. She 
had been very frank with him and had made no pre- 
tension of love. “ I will be true to you,” she said, “ and 
try to please you in everything. I am tired of the aim- 
less life I have led so many years, and I think Mrs. 
Harwood is a little tired of me too. She says I ought 
to have married long ago, but I could not marry a fool 
even if he had a title. I shall be so glad to go home to 
my friends, although I am so changed they will never 
know me.” 

Then she added laughingly “ Wouldn’t it be great 
fun not to write them who I am and see if they will 
recognize me ?” 

She did not really mean what she said, or guess that 
it harmonized perfectly with a plan which Mr. Thornton 
had in mind, and was resolved to carry out, if possible. 
If he could have had his wish he would not have gone 
to Rocky Point at all, but his children were there and 
Mildred’s heart was set upon it, and he must meet the 
difficulty in some way. He could marry Mildred, but 
not her famity, and he shrank from the intimacy which 
must necessarily exist between the Park and the farm 
house when it was known who his wife was. In his 
estimation the Leaches were nobodies, and he could not 
have them running in and out of his house and treating 
him with the familiarity of a son and brother, as he was 


THE BRIDE. 


373 


sure they would do if he did not stop it. If Mildred 
would consent to remain incognito while at the Park 
the annoyance would be prevented, and this consent 
he tried to gain by many specious arguments. His 
real reason, he knew, must be kept from sight, and so 
he asked it as a personal favor, saying it would please 
him very much and be a kind of excitement for her. 

“ Possibly you will be recognized,’' he said ; “ and if 
so, all right ; if not, we will tell them just before we 
go to New York in the autumn and enjoy their sur- 
prise.” 

He did not add that, once away from Rocky Point, it 
would probably be long before he took her there again. 
He only talked of the plan as a joke, which Mildred did 
not quite see. She was willing to keep the secret until 
she met them, but to keep it longer was absurd and 
foolish, she said, and involved a deception, which she 
abhorred. 

“ I accepted you partly that I might be near them 
and see them every day,” she said, “ and am longing to 
throw my arms around mother’s neck and tell her I have 
come back.” 

“And so you shall in time, but humor my whim for 
once. You will not be sorry/’ Mr. Thornton pleaded, 
and Mildred consented at last, and felt in a measure 
repaid when she saw how happy it made Mr. Thornton, 
whose real motive she did not guess. 

This was the last of April, and six weeks later Mil- 
dred was Mrs. Giles Thornton, traveling through Scot- 
land and Wales and trying to believe herself happy in 
her husband’s love and the costly gifts he lavished 
upon her. She had been courted and admired as Fanny 
Gardner, but the deference paid her now and her inde- 


374 


Mildred’s ambtttoK. 


pendence were very sweet to her, and if she could have 
forgotten Hugh and been permitted to make herself 
known to her family, she would have been content at 
least on the morning when she left New York and 
started for Thornton Park. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MRS. GILES THORNTON. 

She was very lovely in all the fullness of her matured 
beauty as she stepped from the train at Rocky Point, 
and with her large bright eyes swept the crowd of 
curious people gathered to see her, not one of whom 
she recognized. A handsome open carriage from Brew- 
ster’s, sent up a few days before for this occasion, was 
waiting for them, and with a half bow to those who 
ventured to salute her husband, Mildred seated herself 
in it and was driven through the well-remembered 
street, her heart beating so loudly that she could hear 
it distinctly as she drew near the top of the hill from 
which she knew she would see her old home and pos- 
sibly her mother. And when the hill top was reached 
and she saw the house with its doors opened wide, and 
from the upper window of what had been hers and 
Bessie’s room a muslin curtain blowing in and out, she 
grew so white that her husband laid his hand on hers, 
and said, “ Don’t take it so hard, darling. You are do- 
ing it to please me.” 

“ Yes, but it seems as if I must stop here,” she an- 


MRS. GILES THORNTON. 


375 


Swered faintly as she leaned foward to look at the house 
around which there was no sign of life, or stir, except 
the moving of the curtain and the gambols of two kit- 
tens playing in the doorway where Mildred half ex- 
pected to meet the glance of Bessie’s blue eyes and see 
the gleam of Charlie’s golden hair. 

But Charlie was lying on the mountain side, and 
Bessie, although out of sight, was watching the carriage 
and the beautiful stranger in whom she saw no trace of 
her sister. 

“ I’ve seen her,” Bessie said, as she went into her 
mother’s room, “ arid she is very lovely, with such a 
bright color on her cheeks. And so young to be Mr. 
Thornton’s wife ! I wonder if she loves him. I 
couldn’t.” 

“ No. I suppose you prefer Gerard,” Mrs. Leach re- 
plied, while Bessie answered blushingly, “ Of course I 
do. Poor Gerard ! How angry his father will be when 
he knows about Tom and me, too. Gerard was going 
to tell him at once, but I persuaded him to wait until 
the honeymoon was over. Just two months I’ll give 
him, and during that time I mean to cultivate Mrs. 
Thornton and get her on my side. I hope she is not 
proud like him. She did not look so.” 

Bessie had been at the Park that morning helping 
Alice give the last touches to the rooms intended for 
the bride. These had been finished in the tints which 
Mr. Thornton had prescribed. Everything was new, 
from the carpets on the floors to the lace-canopied bed- 
stead of brass. There were flowers everywhere in great 
profusion, roses mostly of every variety, and in a glass 
on a bracket in a corner, Bessie had put a bunch of 
June pinks from her own garden, explaining to Alice 


376 


MILDRED*S AMBITIOtf. 


that her mother had sent them to the bride, as they 
were her favorite flowers and would make the rooms so 
sweet Everything was finished at last, and after 
Bessie was gone Alice had nothing to do but to wait 
for the coming of the carriage which she soon saw en- 
tering the Park. Mildred’s face was very white and her 
voice trembled as she saw Alice in the distance and 
said, “ I can’t bear it. I came near shrieking to the old 
home that I was Mildred. I must tell Alice. I cannot 
be so hypocritical. There is no reason for it.” 

“ No, no,” and Mr. Thornton spoke a little sternly. 
“It is too late now, and you have promised. I wish it 
and have my reason. Ah, here we are, and there are 
Alice and Gerard.” 

They had stopped under the great archway at the 
side entrance where Gerard and Alice were waiting for 
them and scanning the bride curiously as she alighted 
and their father presented her to them, — not as their 
mother, but as “ Mrs. Thornton, my wife.” 

All Mildred’s color had come ba'ck and. her face was 
glowing with excitement as she took Alice’s hand ; then 
unable to control herself, she threw her arms around 
the neck of the astonished girl and burst into a flood of 
tears, while Mr. Thornton looked on in dismay, dread- 
[ ing what might follow. He was himself beginning to 
think it a very foolish and unnatural thing to try to 
keep his wife’s identity from her people, but he was not 
a man to give up easily, and once in a dilemma of his 
own making he would stay in it at any cost. 

“ She is very tired and must go to her room,” he said 
to his daughter, who was crying herself, and holding 
Mildred’s hands in her own. 

Had Mildred tried she could have done nothing bet- 


MRS. GILES TflOKNTON; 


377 


ter for her cause than she had done. Alice had been 
very doubtful as to whether she should like her new 
mother or not, but something in the eyes which looked 
so appealingly into hers, and in the tears she felt upon 
her cheek, and the clasp of the arms around the neck, 
disarmed all prejudice and made of her a friend at 
once. As for Gerard, he had never meant to be any- 
thing but friendly, and when the scene between the two 
ladies was over he came forward with the slow, quiet 
manner natural to him and said, “ Now it is my turn to 
welcome Mrs. Thornton, who does not look as if she 
could have for a son a great six-footer like me. But I’ll 
call you mother, if you say so.” 

“ No, don’t,” Mildred answered, flashing on him a 
smile which made his heart beat rapidly and brought a 
thought of Bessie, who sometimes smiled like that. 

Leading the way to Mildred’s rooms, Alice said, as 
she threw open the door, “ I hope you will like them.” 

“ Like them ! They are perfect,” was Mildred’s 
answer, as she walked through the apartments, feeling 
that it must be a dream from which she would bye-and- 
bye awaken. “ And so many roses,” she said, stopping 
here and there over a bowl or cluster of them until, 
guided by the perfume, she came upon the pinks her 
mother had sent to her. 

Taking up the glass she held it for an instant while 
Alice said, “ June pinks, perhaps you do not have them 
in England. They are old-fashioned flowers, but very 
sweet. A friend of mine, Bessie Leach, brought them 
for you from her mother, who is blind.” 

There was a low cry and a crash as the finger-glass 
fell to the floor and Mildred sank into the nearest 


m 


tall/bEEb’s AMBITION. 


chair, white as ashes, with a look in her eyes which 
startled and frightened Alice. 

“ It is the heat and fatigue of the voyage. I was very 
seasick,” Mildred said, trying to smile and recover her- 
self, while Alice went for a towel to wipe up the water 
trickling over the carpet, and wondering if Mrs. 
Thornton was given to faintings and hysterics like 
this. 

“ She don’t look like it,” she thought, as she picked 
up and carried out the bits of glass and the pinks which 
had done the mischief. 

When lunch was served Mildred was too ill to go 
down. A severe headache had come on, and for a time 
Alice sat by her couch bathing her forehead and brush- 
ing her hair, which was more a mottled than golden 
brown, for it was darker in some places than others, es- 
pecially when seen in certain lights and shadows. But 
this only added to its beauty, and Alice ran her fingers 
through the shining mass, admiring the color and the 
texture and admiring the woman generally and an- 
swering the many questions which were asked her. 
Hungry at heart to hear something of her family, 
Mildred said to her, “ Tell me of your friends. Have 
you any here ? Girl friends, I mean.” 

“ Only one with whom I am intimate,” Alice replied, 
and then as girls will she went off into rhapsodies over 
Bessie Leach, and in a burst of confidence concluded 
by saying, “ You must not tell papa, for he is not to 
know it yet, but Bessie is to be my sister. She is to 
marry Gerard.” 

“ Marry Gerard !” and Mildred raised herself upon 
her elbow and shedding her heavy hair back from her 
face stared at Alice with an expression in her eyes 


MRS. GILES THORNTON. 


m 


which the girl could not understand, and which made 
her wonder if her stepmother, too, were as proud as 
her father and would resent Gerard’s choice. 

This called forth another eulogy upon Bessie’s beauty 
and sweetness, with many injunctions that Mildred 
should not repeat to her husband what had been told 
her. 

“ Nobody knows it for certain but Mr. McGregor and 
ourselves,” she added, and then, turning her face away 
so that it could not be seen, Mildred said, “ Mr. Mc- 
Gregor ? That is your father’s attorney. Is he a 
married man ?” 

The question was a singular one, but Alice was not 
quick to suspect, and answered laughingly, “ Hugh 
McGregor married ! Why, I don’t suppose he has ever 
looked twice at any girl. He is a confirmed old 
bachelor, but very nice. Father thinks the world of 
him.” 

“ Yes, oh, yes,” Mildred moaned, as she clasped her 
hands over her forehead where the pain was so intense. 

“ Yon are worse. You are white as a sheet ; let me 
call papa,” Alice cried, alarmed at the look of anguish 
in the dark eyes and the gray pallor of the face which 
seemed to have grown pinched and thin in a moment. 

But her husband was the last person whom Mildred 
wished to see then, and detaining Alice she said, “ Don’t 
call him, please. It will soon pass off, and don’t think 
me ungrateful, either, but I’d rather be alone for a while. 
I may sleep and that will do me good.” 

And so, after darkening the room, Alice went out 
and left the wretched woman alone in her grief and 
pain. 

“Mrs. Hayford was mistaken. Hugh is not engaged 


380 


Mildred’s ambitiok. 


to Bessie, and I am Mrs. Giles Thornton,” she said* a 
little bitterly. “ My ambition ought to be satisfied. I 
have made my own bed and must lie in it, and go on ly- 
ing, too !” 

She smiled faintly at her own joke and then con- 
tinued : “ If I had only resisted and come back Mil- 

dred Leach ! But it is now too late, and Hugh will 
always despise me for the deception. Oh, Hugh !” 

There was a spasmodic wringing of the hands, and 
then, as if ashamed of herself Mildred said, “ I must 
not, will not be faithless to my husband, who loves me, 
I know, and I will be worthy of his love and make him 
happy, so help me Heaven !” 

The vow was made and Mildred would keep it to the 
death. The might have been, which has broken so 
many hearts when the knowledge came too late, was 
put away and buried deep down in the inmost recesses 
of her soul, and when two hours later she awoke from a 
refreshing sleep and found her husband sitting by her, 
she put her hand in his just as she had never put it be- 
fore, and did not shrink from him when he stooped down 
to caress her. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CALLS AT THE PARK. 

It was early the next morning when Mildred arose 
and stepping out upon the balcony looked toward the 
town which had changed so much since she was there 
last. Across the noisy little river which went dashing 


CALLS AT THE PARK. 


381 


along in its rocky bed at the foot of the mountain, one 
or two tall stacks of manufactories were belching forth 
their smoke, while new churches and hotels and villas 
dotted what had been pasture lands when she went 
away. Standing upon tiptoe she could see the chimney 
top of her old home, and just over it, up the mountain 
road, the evergreens in the cemetery where her father 
and Charlie were lying. 

“I’ll go there some day alone and find their graves,” 
she was thinking when her husband joined her. 

“ I am sure you are better, you look so fresh and 
bright ; but it is time you were getting ready for break- 
fast,” he said, as he gave her a little caress. 

And Mildred was Very bright when she at last went 
with her husband to the breakfast room, a half-opened 
rose which he had gathered for her at her throat, and 
another at her belt. It was her first appearance at her 
own table, and Mr. Thornton led her proudly to her 
seat behind the coffee urn and looked at her admiringly 
while she assumed the role of mistress as naturally as if 
she had all her life been accustomed to her present sur- 
roundings. Alice had kissed her effusively as she came 
in, hoping she was quite well and thinking her more 
beautiful than on the previous day. Gerard, who was 
less demonstrative but more observant than his sis- 
ter, greeted her cordially and then sat watching her, 
curious and puzzled by something in her face or 
manner or voice which seemed familiar to him. 

“ She is dazzlingly lovely. I wonder how Bessie will 
look beside her,” he thought, as after breakfast he 
started for the farm house as was his daily custom. 

It was very warm that morning and Mildred had 
seated herself with a book upon the shaded balcony 


382 


Mildred's ambition. 


opening from her room, when word was brought her 
that her husband wished to see her on the front piazza. 

“ There’s a gentleman with him, — Mr. McGregor,” the 
servant said, and Mildred felt as if her heart had sud- 
denly risen in her throat, making her choke and gasp 
for breath. 

She knew he would come some time, but had not ex- 
pected him so soon, and she shook like a leaf as she 
stood a moment before her mirror. 

“ He will never know me,” she said, as side by side 
with the reflection of herself she saw the girl of fifteen 
years ago ; sallow and thin and slight, with eyes too big 
for her face, and hair too heavy for her head ; the girl 
with the faded calico dress and high-necked apron, 
who seemed to walk beside her as she descended the 
broad staircase and went through the hall and out upon 
the piazza, where she heard her husband’s voice, and 
Hugh’s. 

“ I came on business, and intended calling later, but 
I shall be glad to see Mrs. Thornton,” she heard him 
say, and then the smothered, choking sensation left her, 
and, with a little unconscious nod to the other Mildred 
at her side, she whispered : 

“ I shall pull through.” 

Hugh was standing half way down the piazza, lean- 
ing against a column, with his straw hat in his hand, 
fanning himself, just as she had seen him do a hundred 
times when they were boy and girl together, and he 
was looking at the shadowy Mildred at her side just as 
he now looked at her, the tall, elegant, perfectly self- 
possessed woman, coming slowly towards him, every 
movement graceful, and every action that of one sure 
pf herself, and accustomed to the admiration she saw in 


CALLS AT THE PARK. 


383 


his eyes, — the same kind, honest blue eyes which she 
remembered so well, but which had in them no sign of 
recognition as he came forward to meet her, and offer- 
ing her his hand, welcomed her to Rocky Point, “ and 
America,” he added, while a blood-red stain crept up 
from her neck to her ear as she felt the deception she 
was allowing. Hugh was not as polished as Mr. Thorn- 
ton, nor were his clothes as faultless and fashionable, 
but he was every whit a gentleman, and looked it, too, 
as he stood for a moment talking to Mildred in the 
voice she knew so well and which had grown richer and 
deeper with the lapse of time, and moved her strangely 
as she listened to it again. 

“ I think I should have known him anywhere,” she 
thought, as she answered his remarks, her own voice, in 
which the English accent was predominant, steady and 
firm, but having in it occasionally a tone which made 
Hugh start a little, it was so like something he had 
heard before, but could not define. 

There was nothing in this English woman, as he be- 
lieved her to be, which could remind him of Mildred 
Leach, who was never once in his mind during the few 
minutes he was talking with her. And still she puz- 
zled him, and all that morning, after his return to his 
office, her lovely face and especially her eyes haunted 
him and looked at him from every paper and book he 
touched, and he heard the tone, which had struck him 
as familiar, calling to him everywhere, and bringing at 
last a thought of Mildred Leach and the July morning 
when she had shelled her peas by the door, and given 
him a pod as a souvenir. Where was she now, he won- 
dered, and would she come back in the autumn ? Prob- 
ably not. She had held out similar promises before 


384 


Mildred’s ambition. 


only to break them. She was weaned entirely from all 
her old associations, and it did not matter, he said to 
himself, wondering, as he often did, why he had so long 
kept in his mind the little wayward girl, who had never 
done anything but tease and worry him, and tell him of 
the great things she meant to do. 

“She has been a long time doing it, unless she calls 
a life of dependence a great thing,” he said, and then 
his thoughts drifted to Thornton Park and the bride, 
who was troubled with no more calls that day, and so 
had time to rest and go about her handsome house and 
grounds, much handsomer than when she first rang 
the front door bell and was told to go to the side en- 
trance by the man who was her husband now, and 
prouder of her than of all his other surroundings. 

The next day there were man) 7- visitors at the Park, 
mostly strangers to Mildred, although a few of them had 
been known to her in childhood, but like Hugh, they 
saw no resemblance in her to the “ oldest Leach girl,” 
as she was called by the neighbors who remembered 
her. Of the bride there was but one verdict, “ The most 
elegant and agreeable woman that has ever been in 
Rocky Point,” was said of her by all, for Mildred, while 
bearing herself like a princess, was so gracious and 
friendly that she took every heart by storm. 

It was late in the day when Bessie started to make 
her call with Tom. Dinner was over and Mildred, who, 
with her husband and Gerard and Alice, was sitting 
upon the piazza, saw them as they turned an angle in 
the shrubbery and came up the avenue. 

“ Oh, there's Bessie, Allie cried, springing to her 
feet, while Mildred’s heart began to beat wildly as she 
glanced at Mr. Thornton, on whese brow there was a 


CALLS AT THE PARK. 


385 


dark frown, the first she had seen since she was his 
wife, and this quieted her at once, for she readily 
guessed its cause. She knew he had not married her 
family, and had begun to suspect that he meant to keep 
her from them as much as possible. 

“ But he cannot do it,” she thought, and turning to 
him she said in a low tone, “They are mine ; my own 
flesh and blood, and for my sake treat them politely. 
It is the first favor I have asked of you.” 

There was something in her eyes which made him 
think she might be dangerous if roused, and for aught 
he knew she might bring the whole family there to live, 
or leave him for them, and swallowing his pride, he 
went forward to meet his visitors with so much cordial- 
ity that Tom, who had never received the slightest 
civility from the great man, thought, to himself, “ By 
Jove, she’s made him over.” 

“ My wife, Mrs. Thornton ; Miss Leach and Mr. 
Leach,” Mr. Thornton said, and Mildred’s hand, cold 
and nerveless, was taken by a hand as white and soft as 
her own, while Bessie’s blue eyes looked curiously at 
her, and Bessie was saying the commonplace things 
which strangers say to each other. 

“ How lovely she is,” Mildred thought, hardly able to 
restrain herself from folding the sunny, bright-faced 
girl in her arms and sobbing and crying over her. 

But Tom was speaking to her now, and she was con- 
scious of a feeling of pride as she looked at the tall, 
handsome, manly fellow, and knew he was her brother. 
Tom was like his mother, and Bessie like her father, 
while Mildred was like neither, and one could scarcely 
have seen any resemblance between them as they sat 
talking together until the moon came up over the hill 


386 


Mildred’s ambition. 


and it was time to go. Bessie had devoted herself to 
Mildred, who fascinated her greatly, and who had 
adroitly led her to talk of herself and her home and her 
mother. Mildred spoke of the pinks, her voice trem- 
bling as she sent her thanks and love to the blind woman 
whom she was soon coming to see. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad,” Bessie exclaimed, in her impulsive 
way, “ and mother will be glad too. She sent the pinks 
because they are her favorite flowers and she says they 
remind her of Milly, who used to love them so much ; 
that’s my sister, who has been abroad many years. I 
scarcely remember her at all.” 

“ Oh,” came like a moan from Mildred, who felt as if 
a blow had struck her heart, it throbbed so painfully at 
the mention of her old name by the sister who did not 
know her, and for an instant she was tempted to 
scream out the truth and bring the foolish farce to an 
end. 

Then she felt her husband’s hand on her arm and 
the power of his will overmastering her, and keeping 
her quiet. But she was glad when the interview was 
over and she was free to go by herself and sob out her 
anguish and shame and regret, that she had ever lent 
herself to this deception. Of the two, Bessie and Tom, 
she had felt more drawn toward the latter, of whom any 
sister might be proud, and when bidding him good- 
night she had held his hand with a pressure which sur- 
prised him, while her lips quivered and her eyes had in 
them a wistful look, as if she were longing to say, “ Oh, 
Tom ; my brother.” And Tom had felt the magnetism 
of her eyes and manner, and he said to Alice, who, with 
Gerard, walked with them to the Park gate, “ 1 say, 
Allie, your stepmother is a stunner, and no mistake, 


MILDRED AND HER MOTHER. 


387 


and I do believe she took a fancy to me. Why, I 
actually thought she squeezed my hand a little, and she 
looked as if she’d like to kiss me. It wouldn’t hurt me 
much to kiss her.” 

“ Oh, Tom ; and right before Allie,” Bessie said 
laughingly, and Tom replied, “ Can’t a fellow fall in 
love with his stepmother-in-law, if he wants to ?” and 
the arm he had thrown around Alice tightened its hold 
upon her. 

Here they all laughed together and went on freely 
discussing the woman, who, on her knees in her room 
was praying to be forgiven for the lie she was living, 
and for strength to meet her mother, as that would be 
the hardest ordeal of all. Once she resolved to defy 
her husband and proclaim her identity, but gave that 
up with the thought that it was not very long until Sep- 
tember, and she would wait at least until she had seen 
her mother. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MILDRED AND HER MOTHER. 

It was several days before Mildred went to the farm 
house, from which her husband would have kept her 
altogether if he could have done so. His determination 
to separate her as much as possible from her family had 
been constantly increasing since his return, and he had 
fully made up his mind to leave Rocky Point by the 
first of September and advertise the Park for sale, thus 


388 


Mildred’s ambition. 


cutting off all chance for intimacy in the future when it 
was known who she was. She could do for her family 
all she pleased, he thought, but she 'must not be inti- 
mate with them, and on his way to the house, for he 
drove her there himself, he reminded her again of her 
promise, saying to her very kindly, as he helped her to 
alight : 

“ I can trust you, Milly, and am sorry for you, for I 
know it will be hard to meet your mother and keep 
silence.” 

It was harder than Mildred herself had anticipated, 
for the sight of the familiar place, the walk, the garden, 
and the brook, where she had waded barefoot many a 
time in summer and drawn her sled in winter with 
Hugh at her side, nearly unmanned her, and every nerve 
was quivering as she rang the bell in the door of the 
little, square entry, with the steep, narrow stairs winding 
up to the chambers above. It was Bessie who answered 
the ring, blushing when she saw her visitor and apolo- 
gizing for her appearance. The hjred girl was gone for 
a day or two, leaving her maid of all work, and as this 
was baking day she was deep in the mysteries of pastry 
and bread, with her long, bib apron on and her hands 
covered with flour. 

“ Nevermind me,” Mildred said, as she took in the 
situation. “ It was thoughtless in me to come in the 
morning. Please keep to your work while I talk with 
your mother. I will call upon you some other time. 
Oh, Gerard, you here ?” she continued, as through the 
door opening into the kitchen she saw the young man 
seated by the table pitting cherries which Bessie was 
to make into pies. “ That’s right ; help all you can,” 
she added with a smile, glad he was there, as it would 


MILDRED AND HER MOTHER. 


389 


leave her alone and freer with her mother, whom she 
found in the bright, sunny room, built partly with the 
money she had sent. 

Mrs. Leach was always very neat and clean, but this 
morning she was particularly so, in her black cam- 
bric dress and spotless white apron, with the widow’s 
cap resting on her snowy hair. Her hands were folded 
together, and she was leaning back in her chair as if 
asleep, when Mildred’s voice roused her, and a moment 
after Bessie said : 

“ Here, mother, is Mrs. Thornton, and as I am so busy 
I will leave her with you for a little while.” 

Suddenly, as if she had been shot, Mrs. Leach started 
forward, and rubbing her eyes, in which there was an 
eager, expectant look, said : 

“ I must have been dozing, for I dreamed that Milly 
had come and I heard her voice in the kitchen. Mis’ 
Thornton here, did you say ? I am very proud to meet 
her and the hands were outstretched, groping in the 
helpless way habitual with the blind. And Mildred 
took the hands in hers and drawing a chair to her 
mother’s side sat down so close to her that Mrs. Leach 
felt her hot breath stir her hair and knew she was being 
looked at very closely. But how closely she did not 
dream, for Mildred’s soul was in her eyes, which scanned 
the worn face where suffering and sorrow had left their 
impress. And what a sad, sweet face it was, so sweet 
and sad that Mildred involuntarily took it between her 
hands and kissed it passionately ; then, unable to con- 
trol herself, she laid her head on her mother’s bosom 
and sobbed like a little child. 

“What is it? Oh, Mrs. Thornton, you scare me. 
What makes you cry so ? Who are you ?” Mrs. Leach 


390 


MILDRED 8 AMBITION. 


said, excitedly, for she was frightened by the strange 
conduct of her visitor. 

“ You must excuse me,” Mildred said, lifting up her 
head. “ The sight of you unnerved me, for my, — my 
mother is blind ?” 

She did not at all mean to say what she knew would 
involve more deception of a certain kind, but she had 
said it and could not take it back, and it was a sufficient 
explanation of her emotion to Mrs. Leach, who said : 

“ Your mother blind ! Dear, — dear, — how did it hap- 
pen, and has she been so long ? Where does she live, 
and how could she bear to have you leave her ? Dear, 
dear !” 

“ Don’t talk of her now, please. I can’t bear it,” Mil- 
dred replied, and thinking to herself, “ Homesick, poor 
thing,” Mrs. Leach, whose ideas of the world were nar- 
rowed to her own immediate surroundings, began to 
talk of herself and her family in a desultory kind of 
way, while Mildred listened with a feeling of half won- 
der, half pain. 

All her associations while with Mrs. Harwood had 
been with highly-cultivated people, and in one sense her 
mother was new to her and she realized as she had never 
done before how different she was from Mr. Thornton 
and herself. “ But she is my mother, and nothing can 
change my love for her,” she thought, as she studied 
her and the room, which was cozy and bright, though 
very plainly furnished as compared with the elegant 
boudoir where she had made her own toilet. There 
was the tall clock in the corner which had ticked away 
the hours and days she once thought so dreary and 
lonely ; the desk between the windows, where her 
father used to keep his papers, and his old, worn pocket- 


MILDRED AND HER MOTHER, 


391 


book, in which there was never much money, and on 
the bed in another corner was a patchwork quilt, a few 
blocks of which Mildred had pieced herself, recognizing 
them now with a start and a throb of pain as she saw in 
two of them bits of the frock she had bought for Charlie 
with the berries picked in her husband’s pasture. She 
had been turned out then as a trespasser where she was 
mistress now, and there were diamonds on her white 
hands, which had once washed potatoes for dinner, her 
special abomination, and her gown had cost more than 
all her mother’s wardrobe. And there she sat in a kind 
of dream, while the other Mildred of years ago sat close 
beside her, confusing and bewildering her, so that she 
hardly heard half her mother was saying about Tom 
and Bessie, the dearest children in the world. But 
when at last her own name was mentioned she started 
and was herself again, and listened as her mother 
went on : 

“ I’ve another girl, Mildred by name, but I call her 
Millv. She’s been in Europe for years, and has been 
everywhere and speaks French and German, and writes 
such beautiful letters.” 

She was evidently very proud of her absent daughter, 
and the lady beside her, whose pallid face she could not 
see, clasped her hands and held her breath as she con- 
tinued : 

u I never s’posed she’d stay so long when she went 
away, or I couldn’t let her go ; but somehow or other 
she’s staid on and on till she’s been gone many a year ; 
many a year has Milly been gone, fifteen years come 
fall, and now ’tain’t likely I should know her, if I could 
see. You won’t be offended, Mis’ Thornton, if I say that 
something about you makes me think of Milly ; some- 


392 


Mildred’s ambition. 

thing in your voice at first, and you laid your head on 
my neck and cried just as she used to when things 
went wrong and fretted her, which they mostly did, for 
I she wasn’t meant to be poor, and was always wantin’ to 
be rich and grand. I guess she is grand now she’s been 
in foreign places so much, but she’s cornin’ home in the 
fall ; she wrote me so in her last letter. You’ll call on 
her, won’t you ?” 

“ Yes,” Mildred stammered, scarcely able to keep her- 
self from crying out : “ Oh, mother, I have come. I 

am Milly,” but a thought of her husband restrained 
hei% and thinking how she would make amends in the 
future, when freed from her promise of secrecy, she lis- 
tened again, while her mother talked of her father and 
Charlie, and lastly of Hugh McGregor, who was a great 
favorite with the old lady. 

“Jest like my own boy,” Mrs. Leach said, “and so 
kind to Tom. He lent him money to go to school, and 
helps him a sight in his law books, and helps on the 
farm, too, when he gets time, which is not often, for 
Hugh is a first-rate lawyer and pleads at the bar like a 
judge. I believe he’s cornin’. Yes, I hear his step,” 
and her face lighted up as Hugh appeared in the open 
door. 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Leach,” he called cheerily. “ I 
beg your pardon, good morning, Mrs. Thornton,” and he 
bowed deferentially to the lady as he came in with a 
cluster of lovely roses, which he laid in Mrs. Leach’s 
lap, saying, “ Here are some of Milly’s ros v es. They 
opened this morning and I brought them to you. Shall 
I give one to Mrs. Thornton ?” 

“Yes, do ; the fairest and best. I think she must be 
like them, though I can’t see her,” Mrs. Leach replied, 


MlLDRfcb AND HER MOTHER. 


393 


And selecting one of the finest, Hugh offered it to Mil- 
dred, whose cheeks rivaled it in color, as she held it 
near them to inhale its perfume. 

It was of the variety known as “ Souvenir d’un Ami,” 
and the original stock had been bought by Mrs. Leach 
two or three years before with some money sent her by 
Mildred, whose name she had given to the rose. This 
she explained to Mildred, adding that Mr. McGregor 
was so fond of the rose that he had taken a slip from 
her garden and planted it under his office window. 

“He calls it Milly’s rose,” she added, “for he and 
Milly were great friends, as children. Hugh, ain’t there 
something about Mis’ Thornton that makes you think 
of Milly ?” 

Mildred’s face was scarlet, but she tried to hide it by 
bending her head very low as she fastened the rose to 
the bosom of her dress, while Hugh answered laugh- 
ingly, “ Why, no. Milly was small and thin, and a child 

when we saw her, while Mrs. Thornton is ” here 

he stopped, confused and uncertain as to what he ought 
to say next. But when Mildred’s eyes flashed upon him 
expectantly, he added very gallantly, “ Mrs. Thornton is 
more like Milly’s roses.” 

“ Thank you for the compliment, Mr. McGregor. I 
will remember it and keep Milly’s rose, too,” Mildred 
said, with a little dash of coquetry, and a ring in her 
voice which made Hugh think of the Milly who, he sup- 
posed, was thousands of miles away. 

Just then there was the sound of wheels stopping be- 
fore the house, and Gerard, with his apron still tied 
around his neck, for he was not yet through with his 
culinary duties, came to the door, saying, “ Mrs. Thorn- 
ton, father is waiting for you.” 


394 


Mildred’s ambition. 


“Yes, I’ll be there directly,” Mildred replied, rising 
hurriedly to say good-bye, and giving her hand to her 
mother, who fondled it a moment and then said to her, 
“ Your hands are soft as a baby’s, and there are 
many rings on your fingers. I think I know how they 
look, and I have felt your hair, but not your face. Tom 
and Bessie say it is handsome. Would you mind my 
feeling it ? That’s my way of seeing.” 

Mildred was glad that Hugh had stepped in to the 
next room and could not see her agitation, as she knelt 
beside the blind woman, whose hands moved slowly 
over her face and then up to her hair, where they rested 
a moment as if in benediction, while she said, “ You are 
lovely, I am sure, and good, too, and your poor blind 
mother must miss you so much. Didn’t she hate to 
part with you ?” 

“ Yes, oh, yes, and my heart is aching for her. Please 
bless me as if you were my mother and I your daughter 
Milly,” was Mildred’s sobbing reply, her tears falling 
like rain as the shaking hands pressed heavily upon her 
bowed head, while the plaintive voice said slowly, “God 
bless you, child, and make you happy with your hus- 
band, and comfort your poor mother while you are 
away from her. Amen.” 

“ Will you tell Mrs. Thornton I am in a hurry ?” 
Mr. Thornton said to Bessie, loudly enough for Mildred 
to hear, and wiping her tears away, she went out 
through the side door where her husband was standing, 
with a frown upon his face, caused not so much by her 
delay as by the glimpse he was sure he had caught of 
his son, in the kitchen, with a checked apron tied round 
his neck and a big cherry stain on his forehead. 

Nor did the sight of his wife’s flushed cheeks and red 


GERARD AND HIS KAtHeH. 


395 


eyes help to restore his equanimity, and although he 
said nothing then, Mildred felt that he was displeased, 
as he helped her into the phaeton and took his seat be- 
side her. 


CHAPTER IX. 

GERARD AND HIS FATHER. 

Gathering up the reins and driving very slowly, he 
began : 

“ Was that Gerard whom I saw tricked out as a kitchen 
cook ?” 

“ Gerard was there. Yes,” Mildred answered, and he 
continued in that cool, determined tone which means 
more than words themselves, “ Is he often there ? Is 
he interested in your sister ? If he is, it must stop. I 
tell you it must stop,” he added more emphatically as 

his wife made no reply. “I married you because ” 

he paused a moment and looked at the woman sitting at 
his side in all her glowing beauty, and then went on in 
a softer tone, — “ because I loved you more than I loved 
my pride, which, however, is so great, that it will not 
quietly submit to my son’s marrying your sister.” 

“ Does he intend to ?” Mildred asked so coolly that 
it exasperated him, and he replied, “ He will not with 
my consent, and he will hardly dare do so without it. 
Why, he has scarcely a dollar of his own, and no busi- 
ness either. More’s the pity, or he wouldn’t be caper- 
ing round a kitchen in an old woman’s apron.” 

“ I think it was Bessie’s,” Mildred said quietly, and 


396 


Mildred’s ambition. 


angrier than ever, her husband continued. “You told 
tne in Paris that your sister was engaged to Mr. Mc- 
Gregor.” 

“ It was a mistake,” Mildred said, her heart beat- 
ing heavily as she thought of all the mistake had done 
'for her. 

“Yes,” Mr. Thornton repeated, “ I ventured to rally 
Hugh a little this morning, and he denied the story 
while something in his manner aroused a suspicion 
which the sight of Gerard confirmed. What was he 
doing there ?” 

“ Pitting cherries for Bessie,” Mildred said with pro- 
voking calmness, and he continued, “ I tell you it shall 

not be. Gerard Thornton must look ” here he 

stopped, not quite willing to finish the sentence, which 
Milly, however, finished for him — “must look higher 
than Bessie Leach ?” 

“Yes, that’s what I mean, although I might not have 
said it, for I do not wish to wound you unnecessarily ; 
but I tell you again it must not be, and you are not to 
encourage it, or encourage so much visiting between 
my children and the Leach’s. Why, that girl, — Bessie, 
I think is her name, — is at the Park half the time. 
Heavens ! What would it be if they knew who you 
were ! I was wise to do as I did, but I am sorry I came 
here at all, and I mean to return to New York earlier 
than I intended, and if necessary, sell the place. That 
will break up the whole business.” 

To this Mildred made no reply, but sat thinking, with 
a growing conviction that she now knew her husband’s 
real reason for wishing to keep her identity a secret 
during their stay at the Park. It was to prevent the 
intimacy which he knew would ensue between her and 


GERARD AND HIS FATHER. 


397 


her family, if they knew who she was, and with all the 
strength of her will she rebelled against it. “ I will 
not encourage the young people, but he shall not keep 
me from my mother,” she thought, and the face at which 
her husband looked a little curiously as he helped her 
from the phaeton, had in it an expression he did not 
understand. 

“ I believe she’s got a good deal of the old Harry in 
her after all, but I shall be firm,” he thought, as he 
drove to the stable and gave his horse to the groom. 

Lunch was nearly over when Gerard appeared, the 
cherry stains washed from his face, but showing con- 
spicuously on his nails and the tips of his fingers, from 
which he had tried in vain to remove them. 

“Why, Gerard, what have you been doing to your 
hands ?” Alice asked, and with an amused look at Mil- 
dred, he replied, “ Stoning cherries with them,” while 
his father hastily left the table. 

“ Gerard,” he said, pausing a moment in the doorway, 
“ Come to the library after lunch. I want to see you.” 

“ Yes, sir,” Gerard answered, feeling as certain then 
of what was coming as he did twenty minutes later when 
his father asked abruptly, “ How old are you ?” 

“ Twenty-five last May.” 

“ Twenty-five, — yes ; and been graduated three years, 
and no business yet. Nothing to do but wear a kitchen 
apron and stone cherries for Bessie Leach. I saw you. 
I don’t like it, and as soon as we are in New York I 
shall find something for you to do.” 

At the mention of Bessie, Gerard had stiffened, for 
his father’s tone was offensive. But his answer was re- 
spectful : “I shall be glad of something to do, sir, al- 
though I do not think myself altogether to blame for 


398 


Mildred’s ambition. 


having been an idler so long. When I left college you 
know I was in so bad health that you and the doctor 
both, fearing I had inherited my mother’s malady, pre- 
scribed perfect rest and quiet for a long time. But I 
am strong now and will do anything you think best. I 
prefer law, and would like to go into Mr. McGregor’s 
office. I can get on faster there than in New York.” 

“ Yes, and see Bessie Leach oftener,” Mr. Thornton 
began angrily. “ I tell you I will not have it. The girl 
is well enough and pretty enough, but I won’t have it, 
and if you are getting too much interested in her, quit 
her at once.” 

“ Quit Bessie !’* Gerard said. “ Quit Bessie ! Never ! 
She has promised to be my wife !” 

“ Your wife !” Mr. Thornton repeated, aghast with 
anger and surprise, for he never dreamed matters had 
gone so far. 

“ Yes, my wife. I was only waiting for you to know 
her better to tell you of our engagement,” Gerard re- 
plied, and then for half an hour, Mildred, who was in 
her room over the library, heard the sound of excited 
voices, — Gerard’s low and determined, and his father's 
louder and quite as decided. 

And when the interview was over, and her husband 
came up to her, he said : 

“ I am very sorry, my darling, because, in a way, the 
trouble touches you through your sister ; but you must 
see that it is not a suitable match for my son. She is not 
you, and has not had your advantages. She is a plain 
country girl, and if Gerard persists in marrying her 
he will have no help from me, either before or after my 
death.” 


IN THE CEMETERY. 


399 


“You mean you will disinherit him ?” Mildred asked, 
and he replied : 

“ Yes, just that ; and I have told him so, and given 
him the summer in which to make up his mind. He 
has some Quixotic idea of studying law with McGregor, 
which will of course keep him here after we have gone. 
I don’t intend to live in a quarrel, and shall say no more 
to him on the subject, or try to control his actions in 
any way. If he goes with us to New York, all right ; 
and if he chooses to stay here, I shall know what to do.” 

A slight inclination of Mildred’s head was her only 
reply, until her husband said : 

“ Do you think Bessie would marry him if she knew 
he was penniless ?” 

And then she answered proudly: “ I do,” and left 
the room, saying to herself as she went out into the 
beautiful grounds, whose beauty she did not see : 
“What will he do when he hears of Alice and Tom ? 
Three Leaches instead of one. Poor Tom ! Poor Bes- 
sie ! And I am powerless to help them.” 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE CEMETERY. 

As Mr. Thornton had said, he did not like to live in a 
quarrel, and after his interview with his son, he tried to 
appear just as he had done before, and when Bessie 
came to the Park, as she often did, he treated her civ- 
ill}’-, and insensibly found himself admiring her beauty 


4:00 


Mildred’s ambition. 


and grace, and thinking to himself, “ If she had money 
she might do.” 

Upon Mildred he laid no restrictions with regard to 
her intercourse with her family, feeling intuitively that 
they would not be heeded. And thus she was free to 
see her mother as often as she liked, and it was re- 
marked by the villagers that the proud mistress of 
Thornton Park went more frequently to the farmhouse 
than anywhere else. Many a morning she spent in the 
pleasant room, listening while her mother talked, mostly 
of Mildred, whose long silence was beginning to trouble 
her. 

“ It is weeks since I heard from her. She said in her 
last letter it might be some time before she wrote again, 
but I am getting anxious,” she would say, while Mil- 
dred comforted her with the assurance that no news 
was good news, and that perhaps her daughter was in- 
tending to surprise her by coming upon her unexpect- 
edly some day. 

“ I am certain of it ; I am something of a prophet, 
and I know Milly will come she would say, as she 
smoothed her mother’s snowy hair, or caressed her 
worn face, which always lighted up with gladness when 
she came, and grew sadder when she went away. 

By some strange coincidence, it frequently happened 
that Hugh called upon Mrs. Leach when Mildred was 
there, and always stopped to talk with her. But Mil- 
dred was never quite at ease with him. Her eyes never 
met his squarely, while her brilliant color came and 
went as rapidly as if she were a shy school-girl con- 
fronted with her master instead of the elegant Mrs. 
Thornton, whose beauty was the theme of every 
tongue, stirring even him a little, but bringing no 


IN THE CEMETERY. 


401 


thought of Mildred, of whom he sometimes spoke to 
her mother. As yet Milly had found no chance to visit 
her father’s and Charlie’s graves, which she knew she 
could find without difficulty, as her mother had told her 
of the headstones which Tom had put there in the 
spring. But she was only biding her time, and one 
afternoon in August, when she had been in Rocky 
Point six weeks or more, she drove up the mountain 
road to call upon some New Yorkers who were stopping 
at the new hotel. It was late when she left the hotel, 
and the full moon was just rising as she reached the 
entrance to the cemetery on her return home. Calling 
to the driver to let her alight, she bade him go on 
and leave her, saying she preferred to walk, as the 
evening was so fine. Mildred had already won the 
reputation among her servants of being rather eccen- 
tric, and thinking this one of her cranks, the man drove 
on, while she went into the grounds, wffiere the dead 
were lying, the headstones gleaming white through the 
clump of firs and evergreens which grew so thickly as 
to conceal many of them from view, and to hide com- 
pletely the figure of a man seated in the shadow of one 
of them not very far from the graves to which she was 
making her way. Hugh had also been up the mountain 
road on foot, and coming back had struck into the 
cemetery as a shouter route home. As he was tired and 
the night very warm, he sat down in an armchair 
under a thick pine, whose shadow screened him from 
observation, but did not prevent his outlook upon the 
scene around him. He had heard the sound of wheels 
stopping near the gate, but he thought no more of it 
until he saw Mildred coming slowly across the yard 
diagonally from the gate, holding up her skirts, for the 


402 


Mildred’s ambition 


dew was beginning to fall, and making, as it seemed to 
him, for the very spot where he was sitting. At first 
he did not recognize her, but when removing her hat as 
if its weight oppressed her she suddenly raised her head 
so that the moonlight fell upon her face, he started in sur- 
prise, and wondered why she was there. Whose grave 
had she come to find ? Some one’s, evidently, for she 
was looking carefully about her, and afraid to startle 
her, Hugh sat still and watched, a feeling like night- 
mare stealing over him as she entered the little enclos- 
ure where the Leaches were buried. He could see the 
two stones distinctly, and he could see and hear her, 
too, as leaning upon the taller and bending low so that 
her eyes were on a level with the lettering, she said, as 
if reading. “John Leach, and Charlie ; these are the 
graves. Oh, father ! oh, Charlie ! do you know I have 
come back after so many years only to find you dead ? 
And I loved you so much. Oh, Charlie, my baby 
brother !” 

Here her voice was choked with sobs, and Hugh 
could hear no more, but he felt as if the weight of 
many tons was holding him down and making him 
powerless to speak or move, had he wished to do so. 
And so he sat riveted to the spot, looking at the woman 
with a feeling half akin to terror and doubt, as to 
whether it were her ghost, or Mildred herself weeping 
over her dead. As her smothered sobs met his ear and 
he thought he heard his own name, he softly whispered, 
“ Milly,” and stretched his arms towards her, but let 
them drop again at his side and watched the strange 
scene to its close. Once Mildred seemed to be praying, 
for she knelt upon the grass, with her face on her 
father’s grave, and he heard the word “ Forgive.” 


IN THE CEMETERY. 


403 


Then she arose and walked slowly back to the road, 
where she was lost to view. As long as he could see the 
flutter of her white dress Hugh looked after her, and 
when it disappeared from sight he felt for a few mo- 
ments as if losing his consciousness, so great was the 
shock upon his nervous system. Mrs. Thornton was 
Mildred Leach, — the girl he knew now he had never 
given up, and whose coming in the autumn he had been 
looking forward to with so much pleasure. She had 
come, and she was another man’s wife, and what was 
worse than all she was keeping her identity from her 
friends and daily living a lie. Did her husband know 
it, or was he, too, deceived ? 

“ Probably,” Hugh said, with a feeling for an instant 
as if he hated her for the deception. But that soon 
passed away, and he tried to make himself believe that 
it was a hallucination of his brain and he had not seen 
her by those two graves. He would examine them and 
see, for if a form of flesh and blood had been there the 
long, damp grass would be trampled down in places. 
It was trampled down, and in the hollow between the 
graves a small, white object was lying. 

“ Her handkerchief. She has been here,” he whis- 
pered, as he stooped to pick it up. “ If her name is on it 
I shall know for sure.” 

There was a name upon it, but so faintly traced that 
he could not read it in the moonlight, which was now 
obscured by clouds. A storm was rising, and hastening 
his steps towards home he was soon in his own room and 
alone to think it out. Taking the handkerchief from 
his pocket, he held it to the light and read “ M. F. 
Thornton.” There could be no mistake. It was Mrs. 
Thornton he had seen in the cemetery, but was it Mil- 


MILDRED’S AMBITION. 


404 

dred ? “ M. F.,” he repeated aloud, remembering- sud- 
denly that Mildred’s name was Mildred Frances, which 
would correspond with the initials. 

“ It is Milly,” he continued, “ but why this deception? 
Is she ashamed to have her family claim her ? Ashamed 
to have her husband know who she was ; and did she 
pass for Fanny Gardner in Europe ?” 

Again a feeling of resentment and hatred came over 
him, but passed quickly, for although he might despise 
and condemn, he could not hate her. She had been 
too much to him in his boyhood, and thoughts of her had 
influenced every action of his life thus far. Just what 
he had expected, if he had expected anything, he did not 
know, but whatever it was, it was cruelly swept away. 
He had lost her absolutely, for when his respect for her 
was gone, she was gone forever, and laying his head 
upon the table he wrestled for a few moments with his 
grief and loss, as strong men sometimes wrestle with a 
great and bitter pain. 

“ If she were dead,” he said, “ it would not be so hard 
to bear. But to see her the beautiful woman she is, — 
to know she is Mildred and makes no sign even to her 
poor, blind mother, is terrible.” 

He was walking the floor now, with Milly’s handker- 
chief held tightly in his hands, wondering what he 
should do with it. 

“ I’ll keep it,” he said. “It is all I have left of her 
except the lock of hair and the peas she gave to me. 
What a fool I was in those days,” and he laughed as he 
recalled the morning when Milly threw him the pod 
which he had not seen in a year. 

But he brought it out now, and laughed again when 
he saw how hard and shriveled were both the peas. 


WHAT FOLLOWED. 


405 


“Stony and hard like her. I believe I'll throw them 
away and end the tomfoolery,” he said. 

But he put them back in the box, which he called a 
little grave, and took up next the curl of tangled hair, 
comparing its color in his mind with Mrs. Thornton’s 
hair, which, from its peculiar, mottled appearance, had 
attracted his notice. How had she changed it, he won- 
dered, and then remembering to have heard of dyes, to 
which silly, fashionable women sometimes resorted, he 
was sure that he hated her, and putting the box away 
went to bed with that thought uppermost in his mind, 
but with Milly’s handkerchief folded under his pillow. 


CHAPTER XI. 

WHAT FOLLOWED. 

When Hugh awoke the next morning it was with a 
confused idea that something had gone out of his life 
and left it a blank, and he asked himself what it was 
and why he was feeling so badly. But memory soon 
brought back a recollection of the secret he held and 
would hold to the end, for he had no intention of betray- 
ing Mildred or charging her with deception, if, indeed, 
he ever spoke to her again. He had no desire to do so, 
he thought, and then it came to him suddenly that there 
was to be a grand party at Thornton Park that night, 
and that he had ordered a dress suit for the occasion. 

a But I shall not go,” he said to himself, as he made 
his hurried toilet. “ I could not bear to see Milly 


m 


Mildred’s AMRiTtotf. 


tricked out in the gewgaws and jewels for which She 
sold herself.” 

And firm in this resolution, he went about his usual 
duties in his office, clinching his fist and setting his 
teeth when several times during the day he heard Tom 
Leach talking eagerly of the party, which he expected 
to enjoy so much. Tom did not ask if Hugh was going, 
expecting it as a matter of course, and Hugh kept his 
own counsel, and was silent and moody and even cross 
for him, and at about four o’clock sat down to write his 
regret. Then, greatly to his surprise, he found how 
much he really wanted to see Mildred once more and 
study her in the new character she had assumed. 

“ I shall not talk with her and I don’t know that I 
shall touch her hand, but I am half inclined to go/’ he 
thought, and tearing up his regret, he decided to wait 
awhile and see ; and as a result of waiting and seeing, 
nine o’clock found him walking up the broad avenue to 
the house, which was ablaze with light from attic to 
basement, and filled with guests, who crowded the par- 
lors and halls and stairways, so that it was some little 
time before he could fight his way to the dressing-room, 
which was full of young men and old men in high col- 
lars, low vests and swallow-tails, many of them very red 
in the face and out of breath with their frantic efforts 
to fit gloves a size too small to hands unused to them, 
for fashionable parties like this were very rare in Rocky 
Point. 

Mildred had not wished it, as she shrank from society 
rather than courted it, but Gerard and Alice were anx- 
ious for it, and Mr. Thornton willing, and under the 
supervision of his children cards were sent to so many 
that the proud man grew hot and cold by turns as he 


WHAT FOLLOWED. 


407 


thought of having his sacred precincts invaded by Tom, 
Dick and Harry, and the rest of them, as he designated 
the c ass of people whom he neither knew, nor cared to 
know. But Alice and Gerard knew them, and they 
were all there, Tom and Bessie with the rest, Tom by 
far the handsomest young man of all the young men, 
and the one most at his ease, while Bessie, in her pretty 
muslin dress, with only flowers for ornament, would 
have been the belle of the evening, but for the hostess, 
whose brilliant beauty, heightened by the appliances of 
dress, which so well became her fine figure, dazzled 
every one as she stood by her husband’s side in her gown 
of creamy satin and lace, with diamonds flashing on her 
white neck and arms and gleaming in her hair. How 
queenly she was, with no trace of the storm which had 
swept over her the previous night, and Hugh, when he 
descended the stairs and first caught sight of her, 
stopped a few moments, and leaning against the railing, 
watched her receiving her guests with a smile on her 
lips and a look in her eyes which he remembered now 
so well, and wondered he had not recognized before. 
And as he looked there came up before him another 
Milly than this one with the jewels and satin and lace, 
a Milly with tangled hair and calico frock and gingham 
apron, shelling her peas in the doorway and predicting 
that she would some day be the mistress of Thornton 
Park. She was there now, and no grand duchess born 
to the purple could have filled the position better. 

“ Thornton chose well, if he only knew it,” Hugh 
thought, and, mustering all his courage he at last went 
forward to greet the lady. And when she offered her 
hand to him he took it in spite of his determination not 
to do so, and looked into her eyes, which kindled at first 


40 $ 


Mildred’s ambition. 


with a strange light* while in his there was an answer- 
ing gleam, so that neither would have been surprised to 
j have heard the names Milly and Hugh simultaneously 
I spoken. But no such catastrophe occurred, and after a 
few commonplaces Hugh passed on and did not go near 
her again until, at a comparatively early hour, when he 
came to say good night. 

Mildred had removed her glove to change the posi- 
tion of a ring which cut her finger, and was about put- 
ting it on again when Hugh came up, thinking that 
at the risk of seeming rude he would not again take 
the hand which had sent such a thrill through him 
when earlier in the evening he held it for an instant. 
But the sight of it, bare and white and soft as a 
piece of satin, unnerved him and he grasped it tightly, 
while he made his adieus, noting as he did so the 
troubled expression of her face as she looked curiously 
at him. 

“ Does she suspect I know her ?” he thought as he 
went from the house, but not to his home. 

It was a beautiful August night, and finding a seat in 
the shrubbery where he could not be seen, he sat there 
in the moonlight while one after another carriages and 
people on foot went past him, and finally, as the lights 
were being put out, Tom Leach came airily down the 
walk, singing softly. “ Oh, don’t you remember sweet 
Alice, Ben Bolt ? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown.” 

“ Tom’s done for,” Hugh thought, little dreaming how 
thoroughly he was done for in more respects than one. 


Love versus moKeV. 


409 


CHAPTER XII. 

LOVE VERSUS MONEY. 

Tom had been the last to leave the house, for he had 
lingered awhile to talk to Alice, with whom he was 
standing in the conservatory, partially concealed by 
some tall vases and shrubs, when Mr. Thornton chanced 
that way. Thinking his guests all gone and hearing 
the murmur of voices, he stopped just in time to see 
Tom’s arm around his daughter’s waist and to hear a 
sound the meaning of which he could not mistake, as 
the young man’s face came in close proximity to that of 
his daughter. To say that he was astonished is saying 
very little. He was horrified and disgusted, and so 
indignant that his first impulse was to collar the auda- 
cious Tom and hurl him through the window. But not 
wishing a scene before the servants, he restrained him- 
self, and went quietly away, with much the same feel- 
ing which prompted Caesar to say, “ Et tu , Brute!" 
Since his interview with his son he had never men- 
tioned Bessie’s name to him, or raised any objection to 
her coming to his house as often as she liked. But he 
had watched her closely, and had been insensibly 
softened by her girlish beauty and quiet grace of man- 
ner. There was nothing of the plebeian in her appear- 
ance, and he was beginning to think that if Gerard’s 
heart were set upon her, rather than have a bitter 
quarrel he might possibly consent to the marriage, 
although it was not at all what he desired. The young 
couple could live at the Park house, and in the spring 


410 


Mildred’s ambition* 


he would go abroad for an indefinite length of time, and 
thus separate himself and wife entirely from her family. 
In Europe, with her refinement and money, Alice 
would make a grand match and possibly marry* 
an earl, for titles, he knew, could be bought, and he 
had the means to buy them. With a daughter who was 
My Lady, and a son-in-law who was My Lord, he could 
afford to have a Leach for his daughter-in-law, and 
Gerard’s star was rising when he came so unexpectedly 
upon a scene which at once changed him from a relent- 
ing father into a hard, determined man, whom nothing 
could move. 

Mildred was asleep when he went to his room, but 
had she been awake he would have said nothing to her. 
His wrath was reserved for his daughter, who poured 
his coffee for him next morning, as Mildred had a head- 
ache, and was not out of her bed. Gerard, too, was ab- 
sent, and the meal was a very silent, cheerless one, for 
Alice felt that something was the matter and trembled 
when, after it was over, her father asked her to step into 
the library, as he wished to speak with her alone. 

“ Alice,” he began, “ I want to know the meaning of 
what J saw last night ?” 

“ What did you see ?” she asked, her heart beating 
rapidly but bravely as she resolved to stand by Tom. 

“ I am no spy on other people’s actions, but I was 
passing the conservatory and saw Tom Leach kiss you, 
and I think, yes, I’m very sure you kissed him back ; at 
all events you laid your head on his shoulder in a very 
disreputable way, and I want to know what it means.” 

Alice, who had some of her father’s nature, was calm 
and defiant in a moment. The word disreputable had 


LOVE VERSUS MONEY. 


411 


roused her, and her answer rang out clear and distinct, 
“ It means that Tom and I are engaged.” 

“ Engaged ! You engaged to Tom Leach !” Mr. 
Thornton exclaimed, putting as much contempt into his 
voice as it was possible to do. “ Engaged to Tom Leach ! 
Then you are no daughter of mine.” 

Mr. Thornton had never liked Tom, whose frank, as- 
sured manner towards him was more like that of an equal 
than an inferior, and for a moment he felt that he would 
rather see Alice dead than married to him. Just then 
Gerard came to the door, but was about to withdraw 
when his father called him in and said inquiringly, 
“ Your sister tells me she is engaged to Tom Leach. 
Did you know it ?” 

“Yes, I imagined something of the kind,” was Ge- 
rard’s reply, as he crossed over to his sister and stood 
protectingly by her side, while his father, forgetting his 
softened feelings towards Bessie, went on : “ And 

you ? I gave you time to consider your choice. Have 
you done so ?” 

“ I have.” 

“ And it is ?” 

“ To marry Bessie,” was Gerard’s answer, while 
Alice’s came with it : “ And I shall marry Tom.” 

Such opposition from both his children roused Mr. 
Thornton to fury, and his look was the look of a mad- 
man, as he said, “That is your decision. Then hear 
mine. I shall disinherit you both ! I can’t take away 
from you the few thousands your mother left you, but I 
can do as I like with my own. Now, what will you 
do ?” 

“ Marry Bessie.” 

“Marry Tom,” came simultaneously from the young 


Mildred’s ambition. 


412 

rebels, and with the words, “ So be it,” their father left 
the room, and a few minutes later they saw him gallop- 
ing rapidly down the avenue in the direction of the 
town. 

He did not return to lunch, and when he came in to 
dinner he seemed very absent-minded and only volun- 
teered the remark that he was going to New York the 
next day to see that their house was made ready for 
them within a week. As Mildred’s headache was un- 
usually severe she had kept her bed the entire day and 
knew nothing of the trouble until just at twilight, when 
Alice, who felt that she must talk to some one, crept up 
to her, and laying her head on the pillow beside her, 
told of her father’s anger and threat and asked if she 
thought he would carry it out. 

“ No,” Mildred answered. “ He will think better of 
it, I am sure,” and Alice continued, “ Not that I care 
for myself, but I wanted to help Tom.” 

“ Do you love him so much that you cannot give him 
up ?” Mildred asked. 

“ Love him ! Why, I would rather be poor and work 
for my living with Tom, than have all the world with- 
out him,” Alice replied, while the hand on her head 
pressed a little heavily as she went on : “ Papa is so 
proud. You don’t know how contemptuously he says 
those Leaches , as if they were too low for anything, and 

all because they happen to be poor, and because 

Did I ever tell you that Bessie’s sister Mildred, who has 
been so long in Europe, was once, — not exactly a ser- 
vant in our family, for she took care of me, — my little 
friend, I called her, and was very fond of her. But I 
suppose father does not wish Gerard and me to marrv 


LOVE VERSUS MONET. 


413 


into her family Are you crying ?” Alice asked sud- 
denly, as she heard what sounded like a sob. 

“Yes, — no, — I don’t know. I wish I could help you, 
but I can’t,” Mildred answered, while the tears rolled 
down her cheeks like rain. 

Every word concerning her family and herself had 
been like a stab to her, and she felt how bitterly she 
was being punished for her deception. Once she de- 
cided to tell Alice the truth, and might have done so if 
she had not heard her husband’s step outside the door. 
That broke up the conference between herself and 
Alice, who immediately left the room. 

The next morning Mr. Thornton started for New 
York, where he was absent for three or four days, and 
when he returned he complained of a headache and 
pain in all parts of his body. He had taken a severe 
cold, he said, and went at once to his 'bed, which he 
never left again, for the cold proved to be a fever, which 
assumed the typhoid form, with its attendant delirium, 
and for two weeks Mildred watched over and cared for 
him with all the devotion of a true and loving wife. 
True she had always been, and but for one memory 
might have been loving, too, for Mr. Thornton had been 
kind and indulgent to her, and she repaid him with 
every possible care and attention. He always knew her 
in^fns wildest fits of delirium, and would smile when she 
laid her cool hand on his hot head, and sometimes whis- 
per her name. Gerard and Alice he never knew, al- 
though he often talked of them, asking where they were, 
and once, during a partially lucid interval, when alone 
with Mildred, he said to her, “Tell the children I was 
very angry, but I am sorry, and I mean to make it 
right.” 


414 


Mildred’s ambition. 


“ I am sure you do/’ Mildred replied, little guessing 
what he meant, as his mind began to wander again, and 
he only said, “Yes,— all right, and you will see to it. 
All right, — all right.” 

And these were the last words he ever spoke, for on 
the fourteenth day after his return from New York, he 
died, with Mildred bending over him and Mildred’s 
hand in his. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE WILL. 

When Mr. Thornton left Gerard and Alice after his 
threat of disinheritance, he went straight to the office of 
Hugh McGregor, and asking to see him alone, an- 
nounced his intention of making his will. 

“ It’s time I did it,” he said with a little laugh, and 
then as Hugh seated himself at his table, he dictated as 
follows : 

To a few charitable institutions in New York he gave 
a certain sum ; to his children, Gerard and Alice, a 
thousand dollars each, and the rest of his property he 
gave unconditionally to his beloved wife, Mildred 
F. Thornton. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Thornton,” Hugh said, looking up 
curiously from the paper on which he was writing 
“ isn’t this a strange thing you are doing, giving every- 
thing to your wife, and nothing to your children. Does 
she know, — does she desire it ?” 

“ She knows nothing, but I do. I know my own busi- 


THE WILL. 


415 


ness. Please go on. Write what I tell you,” Mr. Thorn- 
ton answered impatiently, and without further protest 
Hugh wrote the will, which was to make Mildred the 
richest woman in the county, his hand trembling a lit- 
tle as he wrote Mildred F., and thought to himself, 
“ That is Milly’s name. She did not deceive him there. 
Does he know the rest ?” 

“You must have three witnesses,” he said, when the 
legal instrument was drawn up. 

“ Tom Leach is in the next room. I saw him. He 
will do for one,” Mr. Thornton said, with a grim smile, 
as he thought what a ghastly joke it would be for Tom 
to witness a will which cut Alice off with a mere pit- 
tance. “ Have him in.” 

So Tom was called, together with another man who 
had just entered the office. A stiff bow was Mr. Thorn- 
ton’s only greeting to Tom, who listened while the 
usual formula was gone through with, and then signing 
his name, Thomas J. Leach, went back to his books, 
with no suspicion as to what the will contained or how 
it would affect him. 

“I will keep the paper myself,” Mr. Thornton said, 
taking it from Hugh, with some shadowy idea in his 
brain that.it might be well to have it handy in case he 
changed his mind and wished to destroy it. 

But death came too soon for that, and when he died 
his will was lying among his papers in his private 
drawer, where it was found by Gerard, who without 
opening it, carried it to Mildred. There had been a 
funeral befitting Mr. Thornton’s position and wealth, 
and he had been taken to Greenwood and laid beside 
his first wife, and after a few days spent in New York 
the family came back to their country home, which they 


416 


Mildred’s ambition. 


preferred to the city. Bessie, Tom and Hugh met 
them at the station, the heart of the latter beating rap- 
idly when he saw Mildred in her widow’s weeds, and 
helping her alight from the train, he went with her to 
her carriage, and telling her he should call in a few 
days on business, bowed a little stiffly and walked 
away. 

Since drawing the will he had been growing very 
hard towards Mildred, whose identity he did not believe 
her husband knew, else he had not married her, and 
as he went back to his office after meeting her at the 
station he wondered what Gerard would think of the 
will, half hoping he would contest it, and wondering 
how long before something would be said of it to him. 
It was not long, for the second day after his return from 
New York, Gerard found it and took it to Mildred. 

“ Father’s will,” he said, with a sinking sensation, as 
if he already saw the shadow on his life. 

Mildred took the paper rather indifferently, but her 
face blanched as she read it, and her words came slowly 
and thick as she said, “ Oh, Gerard, I am so sorry, but 
he did not mean it to stand, and it shall not. Read it.” 

Taking it from her, Gerard read with a face almost 
as white as hers, but with a different expression upon 
it. She was sorry and astonished, while he was resent- 
ful and angry at the man whose dead hand was striking 
him so hard. But he was too proud" to show what he 
really felt, and said composedly, “ I am not surprised. 
He threatened to disinherit us unless we gave up Bessie 
and Tom, and he has done so. It's all right. I have 
something from mother and I shall be as glad to work 
for Bessie as Tom will be to work for Alice. It’s not 
the money I care for so much as the feeling which 


THE WILL. 


417 


prompted the act, and, by George,” he continued, as he 
glanced for the first time at the signatures, Henry Boyd, 
Thomas J. Leach, Hugh McGregor, “if he didn’t get 
Tom to sign Alice’s death warrant. That is the mean- 
est of all.” 

What more he would have said was cut short by the 
violent fit of hysterics into which Mildred went for the 
first time in her life. And she did not come out of it 
easily either, but sobbed and cried convulsively all the 
morning, and in the afternoon kept her room, seeing no 
one but Alice, who clung to her as fondly as if she had 
been her own mother. Alice had heard of the will with 
a good deal of composure, for she was just the age and 
temperament to think that a life of poverty, if shared 
with the man she loved, was not so very hard, and be- 
sides she had in her own right seven hundred dollars a 
year, which was something, she reasoned, and she took 
her loss quite philosophically, and tried to comfort Mil- 
dred, whose distress she could not understand. Mil- 
dred knew by the handwriting that Hugh had drawn 
the will, and after passing a sleepless night she arose 
early the next morning, weak in body but strong in her 
resolve to right the wrong which had been done to 
Gerard and Alice. 

“ I am going to see Mr. McGregor,” she said to them 
when breakfast was over, and an hour or two later hei 
carriage was brought out, and the coachman ordered to 
drive her to Hugh’s office and leave her there. 


418 


Mildred’s ambition. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MILDRED AND HUGH. 

Tom was at work that morning on the farm, and as- 
the other clerk was taking a holiday, Hugh was alone 
when he received his visitor, whose appearance there 
surprised him, and at whom he looked curiously, her 
face was so white and her eyes, swollen with weeping, 
so unnaturally large and bright. But she was very calm, 
and taking the seat he offered, and throwing back the 
heavy veil whose length swept the floor as she sat, she 
began at once by saying : 

“ You drew my husband’s will ?” 

“ Yes, I drew it,” he answered curtly, and not at all 
prepared for her next question, which seemed to ar- 
raign him as a culprit. 

“ Why did you do it ?” and there was a ring in her 
voice he could not understand. 

“ Why did I do it ?” he repeated. “ Don’t you know 
that lawyers usually follow their client’s wishes in mak- 
ing their wills ?” 

“Yes, but you might have dissuaded him from it. 
You knew it was wrong.” 

“ You don’t like it then ?” he asked, but repented the 
question when he saw the effect upon her. 

Rising to her feet and tugging at her bonnet strings 
as if they choked her, she looked steadily at him and 
said : 

h Don’t like it ? What do you take me for ? No, I 


MILDRED AXD HUGH. 


419 


don’t likait, and if I had found it first, I think, — I am 
sure I should have torn it to pieces.” 

She had her bonnet off, and was tossing it toward the 
table as if its weight oppressed her. But it fell upon 
the floor, where it might have lain if Hugh had not 
picked it up, carefully and gingerly, as if half afraid 
of this mass of crape. But it was Milly’s bonnet, 
and he brushed a bit of dust from the veil, and held it 
in his hand, while she pushed back her hair from her 
forehead, and wiping away the drops of perspiration 
standing there went on : 

“ Do you know why he made such a will ?” 

“ I confess 1 do not. I expressed my surprise at the 
time, but he was not a man to be turned from his pur- 
pose when once his mind was made up. May I ask why 
he did it ?” Hugh said, and Mildred replied : 

“ Yes ; — he was angry with Gerard and Alice, because 
of — of — Tom and Bessie Leach. The young people are 
engaged and he accidentally found it out.” 

“Yes, I see; — he thought a Thornton too good to 
marry a Leach. Do you share his opinion ?” Hugh 
asked, while the blood came surging back to Mildred’s 
white face in a great red wave, but left it again, except 
in two round spots which burned on either cheek. 

Hugh was torturing her cruelly, and she wrung her 
hands, but did not answer his question directly. She 
only said, as she took the will from her pocket and held 
it towards him, “ It is all right ? It is legally exe- 
cuted ?” 

“ Yes, it is all right.” 

“And it gives everything to me to do with as I 
please ?” 

“ Yes, it gives everything to you to do with as you 


420 


MILDRED S AMBITION. 


please. You are a very rich woman, Mrs. Thornton, 
and I congratulate you.” 

His tone was sarcastic in the extreme, and stung 
Mildred so deeply that she forgot herself, and going a 
step nearer to him cried out, “ Oh, Hugh, why are you 
so hard upon me ? Why do you hate me so ? Don’t 
you know who I am ?” 

Hugh had not expected this, for he had no idea that 
Mildred would ever tell who she was, and the sound of 
his name, spoken as she used to speak it when excited, 
moved him strangely. He was still holding her black 
bonnet, the long veil of which had become twisted 
around his boot, and without answering her at once he 
stooped to unwind it and then put the bonnet from him 
upon the table as if it had been a barrier between him 
and the woman, whose eyes were upon him. 

“ Yes,” he said at last, very slowly, for he was afraid 
his voice might tremble, “ You are Mrs. Thornton now ; 
but you were Mildred Leach.” 

“Oh, Hugh, I am so glad!” Mildred cried, as she 
sank into her chair, and covering her face with her 
hands, sobbed like a child, while Hugh stood looking at 
her, wondering what he ought to do, or say, and wishing 
she would speak first. But she did not, and at last he 
said : 

“ Mrs. Thornton, you have often puzzled me with a 
likeness to somebody seen before I met you. But I had 
no suspicion of the truth until I saw you in the cemetery 
at your father’s grave. I am no eavesdropper, but was 
so placed that I had to see and hear, and I knew then 
that you were Mildred, come back to us, not as we 
hoped you would come, but ” 

His voice was getting shaky, and he stopped a 


MILD RE t) AND HUGH. 


421 


moment to recover himself. Then, taking from his side 
pocket the handkerchief he had carried with him since 
the night he found it, he passed it to her, saying : 

“ I picked it up after you left the yard. Have you 
missed it ?” 

“ Yes, — no. I don’t remember,” she replied, taking 
the handkerchief, and drying her eyes with it. Then, 
looking up at Hugh, while the first smile she had known 
.since her husband died broke over her face, she con- 
tinued : “ I am glad you know me ; I have wanted to 

tell you and mother and everybody. The deception 
was terrible to me, but I had promised and must keep 
my word.” 

‘‘Then Mr. Thornton knew? You did not deceive 
him ?” Hugh asked, conscious of a great revulsion of 
feeling towards the woman he had believed so steeped 
in hypocrisy. 

“ Deceive him ?” Mildred said, in some surprise. 
“ Never, — in any single thing. I am innocent there. 
Let me explain how it happened, and you will tell the 
others, for I can never do it but once. I am so tired. 
You don’t know how tired,” and she put her hands to 
her face, which was white as marble, as she commenced 
the story which the reader already knows, telling it 
rapidly, blaming herself more than she deserved and 
softening as much as possible her husband’s share in 
the matter. 

“ He was very proud, you know,” she said, “ and the 
Leaches were like the ground beneath his feet. But he 
loved me. I am sure of that, and he was always kind 
and good, and tried to make up for the burden he had 
imposed upon me. Yes, my husband loved me, know- 
ing I was a Leach.” 


422 


Mildred’s ambition. 


“ And you loved him ?” Hugh ashed, regretting the 
words the moment they had passed his lips, and regret- 
ting them more when he saw their effect upon Mildred. 

Drawing herself up, she replied : 

“ Whether I loved him or not does not matter to you, 
or any one else. He was my husband, and I did my 
duty by him, and he was satisfied. If I could have for- 
gotten I should have been happy, and I tell you truly I 
am sorry he is dead, and if I could I’d bring him back 
to-day.” 

She was now putting on the bonnet which made her 
a widow again, and made her face so deathly white that 
Hugh was frightened and said to her : 

“ Forgive me, Mrs. Thornton. It was rude in me to 
ask that question. Forget it, I beg of you. You are 
very pale. Can I do anything for you ?” 

“ No,” she answered, faintly. “ I am only tired, that’s 
all, and I must get this business settled before I can 
rest. I have come to give the money back to Gerard 
and Alice, and you must help me do it.” 

“ I don’t quite understand you,” Hugh said. “ Do you 
mean to give away the fortune your husband left you ?” 

“Yes, every farthing of it. I can never use it. It 
would not be right for me to keep it. He was angry 
when he made that will. He did not mean it, and had 
he lived he would have changed it. That was what 
troubled him when he was ill and he tried to tell me 
about it,” and very briefly she repeated what her hus- 
band had said to her of his children. 

“ I did not understand him then, but I do now. He 
knew I would do right ; he trusted me,” she continued, 
her tears falling so fast as almost to choke her utter- 
ance. 


MILDRED AND HUGH. 


423 


“ But,” said Hugh, “ why give it all ? If Mr. Thorn- 
ton had made his will under different conditions, he 
would have remembered you. Why not divide equally ? 
Why leave yourself penniless ?” 

“ I shall not be penniless,” Mildred replied. “ When 
I was married Mr. Thornton gave me fifteen thousand 
dollars for my own. This I shall keep. It will support 
mother and me, for I am going back to her as soon as 
all is known. And you will help me ? You will tell 
mother and Bessie and Tom, and everybody, and you 
will be my friend, just for a little while, for the sake of 
the days when we played together ?” 

Her lips were quivering and her eyes were full of 
tears as she made this appeal, which no man could have 
withstood, much less Hugh, who would have faced the 
cannon’s mouth for her then, so great was his sympathy 
for her. 

“ Yes, I will do all you wish, but not to-day. The 
will must be proved first, and you are too tired. I will 
see to it at once, and then if you still are of the same 
mind as now I am at your service. Perhaps it will be 
better to say nothing for a few days.” 

“ Yes, better so, — you — know — best — stand — by — me, 
— Hugh,” Mildred said, very slowly, as she leaned back 
in her chair and closed her eyes in the weary way of a 
child going to sleep. 

Hugh thought she was going to faint, her face was so 
pinched and gray, and he said, excitedly: 

“ Mildred, Mildred, rouse yourself. You must not 
faint here. I don’t know what to do with people who 
faint. You must go home at once. Your carriage is 
gone but I see a cab coming. I will call it for you.” 

Darting to the door, he signaled the cab, to which he 


m 


Mildred's ambition. 


half led, half carried Mildred, who seemed very weak 
and was shaking with cold. Rallying a little, she said 
to him : 

“ Thank you, Hugh. I'd better go home. I am get- 
ting worse very fast and everything is black. Is it 
growing dark ?” 

This was alarming. He could not let her go alone, 
and springing in beside her, Hugh bade the cabman 
drive with all possible speed to the Park and then go 
for a physician. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE DENOUEMENT. 

Nothing could have happened better for Mildred and 
her cause than the long and dangerous illness which 
followed that visit to Hugh’s office. It was early Sep- 
tember then, but the cold November rain was beating 
against the windows of her room when at last she was 
able to sit up and carry out her purpose. She had been 
very ill, first with the fever taken from her husband, 
and then with nervous prostration, harder to bear than 
the fever, for then she had known nothing of what was 
passing around her, or whose were the voices speaking 
so lovingly to her, or whose the hands ministering to 
her so tenderly, Bessie, who called her sister, and Alice, 
who was scarcely less anxious and attentive than Bessie 
herself. She did not even know the white-haired 
woman who sat by her day after day, with her blind 


THE DENOUEMENT'. 


425 


eyes turned toward the tossing, moaning, babbling 
figure on the bed, whose talk was always of the past, 
when she was a girl and lived at home, and bathed her 
mother’s head and cooked the dinner and scolded Tom 
and Bessie and kissed and petted Charlie. Of Hugh 
she seldom spoke, and when she did it was in the old, 
teasing way, calling him a red-haired Scotchman and 
laughing at his big hands and feet. To all intents and 
purposes she was the Mildred whom we first saw shell- 
ing peas in the doorway, and the names of her husband 
and Gerard and Alice never passed her lips. Every 
morning and evening Hugh walked up the avenue, and 
ringing the bell asked, “ How is Mrs. Thornton ?” Then 
he would walk back again with an abstracted look upon 
his face, which to a close observer would have told of 
the fear tugging at his heart. The possibility that Mil- 
dred could ever be anything to him, if she lived, did not 
once enter his mind, but he did not want her to die, 
and the man who had seldom prayed before, now 
learned to pray earnestly for Mildred’s life, as many 
others were doing. 

Hugh had done his work well, and told Mildred’s 
story, first to her mother, Bessie and Tom, then to 
Gerard and Alice, and then to everybody, giving it, how- 
ever, a different coloring from what Mildred had done. 
She had softened her husband’s part in the matter and 
magnified her own, while he passed very lightly over 
hers, and dwelt at length upon the pride and arrogance 
of the man who, to keep her family aloof, wrung from 
her a promise, given unguardedly and repented of so 
bitterly. Thus the sympathy of the people was all with 
Mildred, who, as the lady of Thornton Park, had won 
their good opinion by her kindness and gentleness, and 


426 


Mildred’s ambition. 


gracious, familiar manner. That she was Mrs. Giles 
Thornton did not harm her at all, for money and posi- 
tion are a mighty power, and the interest in, and sym- 
pathy for her were quite as great, if not greater, than 
would have been the case if it were plain Mildred Leach 
for whom each Sunday prayers were said in the churches 
and for whom inquiries were made each day until the 
glad news went through the town that the crisis was 
past and she would live. Hugh was alone in his office 
when the little boy who brought him the morning paper 
said, as he threw it in, “ Mis’ Thornton’s better. She 
knows her marm, and the doctor says she’ll git well.” 
Then he passed on, leaving Hugh alone with the good 
news. 

“ Thank God, — thank God,” he said. “ I couldn’t let 
Milly die,” and when a few minutes later one of his 
clerks came into the front office, he heard his chief in 
the next room whistling Annie Laurie, and said to 
himself, with a little nod, “ I guess she’s better.” 

It had been a very difficult task to tell Mildred’s 
story to Mrs. Leach and Tom and Bessie, but Hugh 
had done it so well that the shock was not as great as 
he had feared it might be. As was natural, Mrs. Leach 
was the most affected of the three, and within an hour 
was at Mildred’s bedside, calling her Milly and daugh- 
ter and kissing the hot lips which gave back no answer- 
ing sign, for Mildred never knew her, nor any one, 
until a morning in October, when, waking suddenly 
from along, refreshing sleep, she looked curiously about 
her, and saw the blind woman sitting just where she 
had sat for days and days and would have sat for nights 
had she been permitted to do so. Now she was 
partially asleep, but the words “ Mother, are you here ?” 


THE DENOUEMENT. 


42 ? 


Toused her, and in an instant Mildred was in her 
mother’s arms, begging for the pardon which was not 
long withheld. 

“ Oh, Milly, my child, how could you see me blind 
and not tell me who you were ?” were the only words of 
reproof the mother ever uttered ; then all was joy and 
peace, and Mildred's face shone with the light of a great 
gladness, when Tom and Bessie came in to see her, 
both very kind and both a little constrained in their 
manner towards her, for neither could make it quite 
seem as if she were their sister. 

Gerard and Alice took it more naturally, and after a 
few days matters adjusted themselves, and as no word 
was said of the past Mildred began to recover her 
strength, which, however, came back slowly, so that it 
was November before she was able to see Hugh in her 
boudoir, where Tom carried her in his arms, saying, as 
he put her down in her easy chair, “ Are you sure you 
are strong enough for it ?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, eagerly. “ I can’t put it off 
any longer. I shall never rest until it is done. Tell 
Hugh I am ready.” 

Tom had only a vague idea of what she wished to do, 
but knew that it had some connection with her husband’s 
will, the nature of which he had been told by Gerard. 

“ She’ll never let that stand a minute after she gets 
well,” Tom had said, but he never guessed that she 
meant to give up the whole. 

Hugh, who had been sent for that morning, came at 
once, and found himself trembling in every nerve as he 
followed Tom to the room where Mildred was waiting 
for him. He had not seen her during her sickness, and 
he was not prepared to find her so white and thin and 


428 


Mildred’s ambition 


still so exquisitely lovely as she looked with her eyes 
so large and bright, and the smile of welcome on her 
face as she gave him her hand and said, “We must 
finish that business now, and then I can get well. Sup- 
pose I had died, and the money had gone from Gerard 
and Alice.” 

“ I think it would have come back to them all the 
same,” Hugh replied, sitting down beside her, and 
wondering why the sight of her affected him so 
strangely. 

But she did not give him much time to think, and 
plunging at once into business, told him that she wished 
to give everything to Gerard and Alice, dividing it 
equally between them. 

“ You know exactly what my husband had and where 
it was invested,” she said, “ and you must divide it to 
the best of your ability, giving to each an equal share 
in the Park, for I think they will both live here. I wish 
them to do it, for then we shall all be near each other. 
I shall live with mother and try to atone for the wrong 
I have done. I have enough to keep us in comfort, and 
shall not take a cent of what was left me in the will.” 

This was her decision, from which nothing could 
move her, and when at last Hugh left her she had 
signed away over a million of dollars and felt the richer 
for it, nor could Gerard and Alice induce her to take 
back any part of it after they were told what she had 
done. 

“ Don’t worry me,” she said to them. “ It seemed to 
me a kind of atonement to do it, and I am so happy, and 
I am sure your father would approve of it if he could 
know about it.” 

After that Mildred’s recovery was rapid, and on the 


THE DENOUEMENT. 


429 


first day of the new year she went back to the farm- 
house to live, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of 
Gerard and Alice that she should stay with them until 
Tom and Bessie came, for it was decided that the four 
should, for a time at least, live together at the Park. 
But Mildred was firm. 

“ Mother needs me,” she said, “ and is happier when 
I am with her. I can see that she is failing. I shall 
not have her long, and while she lives I shall try to 
make up to her for all the selfish years when I was 
away, seeking my ow-n pleasure and forgetting hers.” 

And Mildred kept her word and was everything to 
her mother, who lived to see, or rather hear, the double 
wedding, which took place at St. Jude’s one morning in 
September, little more than a year after Mr. Thornton’s 
death. The church was full and there was scarcely a 
dry eye in it as Mildred led her blind mother up the 
aisle, and laid her hand upon Bessie’s arm in response 
to the question, “ Who giveth this woman to be married 
to this man ?” It was Mildred who gave Alice away, 
and who three weeks later received the young people 
when they came home from their wedding journey, 
seeming and looking much like her old self as she did 
the honors of the house where she had once been mis- 
tress, and joining heartily in their happiness, laugh- 
ingly returned Tom’s badinage when he called her his 
stepmother-in-law. Then, when the festivities were 
over, she went back to her mother, whom she cared for 
so tenderly that her life was prolonged for more than a 
year, and the chimes in the old church belfry were ring- 
ingfor a Saviour born, when she at last died in Mildred’s 
arms, with Mildred’s name upon her lips and a blessing 
for the beloved daughter who had been so much to her, 


430 


Mildred’s ambition. 


The night before she died Mildred was alone with her 
for several hours, and bending over her she said, “ I 
want to hear you say again that you forgive me for the 
waywardness which kept me from you so long, and my 
deception when I came back. I am so sorry, mother.” 

“ Forgive you ?” her mother said, her blind eyes trying 
to pierce the darkness and look into the face so close to 
hers. “ I have nothing to forgive. I understand it all, 
and since you came back to me you have been the dear- 
est child a mother ever had. Don’t cry so, Milly,” and 
the shaky hand wiped away the tears which fell so fast, 
as Mildred went on : 

“ I don’t know whether the saints at rest ever think 
of those they have left behind ; but if they do, and 
father asks for me, tell him how sorry I am, and tell 
Charlie how I loved him, and how much I meant to do 
for him when I went away.” 

“ I’ll tell them. Don’t cry,” came faintly from the 
dying woman, who said but little more until the dawn 
was breaking, and she heard in the distance the sound 
of the chimes ringing in the Christmas morn. Then, 
lifting her head from Mildred’s arm, she cried joy- 
fully : 

“ The bells, — the bells, — the Christmas bells. I am 
glad to go on his birthday. Good-bye, Milly. God 
bless you ; don’t cry.” 

They buried her by her husband and Charlie, and 
then Mildred was all alone, except for the one servant 
she kept. Bessie and Alice would gladly have had her 
at the Park, but she resisted all their entreaties and 
gave no sign of the terrible loneliness which oppressed 
her as day after day she lived her solitary life, which, 
for the first week or two, was seldom enlivened by the 


SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 


431 


presence of any one except Gerard and Tom, who each 
day plowed their way through the heavy drifts of snow 
which were piled high above the fence tops. A terrible 
storm was raging on the mountains, and Rocky Point 
felt it in all its fury. The trains were stopped, — the 
roads were blocked, — communication between neigh- 
bor and neighbor was cut off, and though many would 
gladly have done so, few could visit the lonely woman, 
who sat all day w :ere she could look out toward the 
graves on which she knew the snow was drifting, and 
who at night sat motionless by the fire, living over the 
past and shrinking from the future which lay so drear- 
ily before her. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 

It was the last day, or rather the last night of the 
storm. The wind had subsided, and when the sun went 
down there was in the west a tinge of red as a promise 
of a fair to-morrow. But to Mildred there seemed no 
to-morrow better than to-day had been, and when after 
her early tea she sat down in her little sitting-room, 
there came over her such a sense of dreariness and pain 
as she had never before experienced. Once she thought 
of her husband, who had been so kind to her, and whis- 
pered sadly : 

“ I might have learned to love him, but he is dead 
and gonp ; everybody i$ gone who cared for me. Even 


432 


Mildred’s ambition. 


Hugh has disappointed me,” and although she did not 
realize it this thought was perhaps the saddest of all. 
Hugh had disappointed her. During the two years 
since her return to the farm house, she had seen but 
little of him, for it was seldom that he called, and when 
he did it was upon her mother, not herself. 

But he had not forgotten her, and there was scarcely 
a waking hour of his life that she was not in his mind, 
and often when he was busiest with his clients, who 
were increasing rapidly, he saw in the papers he was 
drawing up for them, her face as it had looked at him 
when she said : 

“ Oh, Hugh, don’t you know me ?” He was angry 
with her then, and his heart was full of bitterness to- 
wards her for her deception. But that was gone long 
ago, and he was only biding his time to speak. 

“ While her mother lives she will not leave her,” he 
said ; but her mother was dead, and he could wait no 
longer. “ I must be decent, and not go the very first 
day after the funeral,” he thought, a little glad of the 
storm which kept every one indoors. 

But it was over now, and wrapping his overcoat 
around him, and pulling his fur cap over his ears he 
went striding through the snow to the farm house, 
which he reached just as Mildred was so absorbed in 
her thoughts that she did not hear the door opened by 
her maid, or know that he was there until he came 
into the room and was standing upon the hearth rug 
before her. Then, with the cry, “ Oh, Hugh, is it you ? I 
am glad you have come. It is so lonesome,” she sprang 
up and offered him her hand, while he looked at her 
with a feeling of regret that he had not come before. 
He did not sit down beside her, but opposite, where h^ 


SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 438 : 

could see her as they talked on indifferent subjects, — the 
storm, — the trains delayed, — the wires down, — the dam- 
age done in town,— and the prospect of a fair day 
to-morrow. Then there was silence between them and 
Mildred got up and raked the fire in the grate and 
brushed the hearth with a little broom in the corner, 
while Hugh watched her, and when she was through 
took the poker himself and attacked the fire, which was 
doing very well. 

“ I like to poke the fire,” he said, while Mildred re- 
plied, “ So do I and then there was silence again, un- 
til Hugh burst out : 

“ I say, Milly, how much longer am I to wait ?” 

“ Wha — at ?” Mildred replied, a faint flush tinging 
her face. 

“ How much longer am I to wait ?” he repeated, 
and she answered, “ Wait for what ?” 

“ For you,” and Hugh arose and went and stood over 
her as he continued : “ Do you know how old I am ?” 

Her face was scarlet now, but she answered laugh- 
ingly, “ I am thirty. You used to be four years older 
than myself, which makes you thirty-four.” 

“ Yes,” he said. “ As time goes I am thirty-four, but 
measured by my feelings it is a hundred years since 
that morning when I saw you going through the Park 
gate and felt that I had lost you, as I knew I had after- 
wards, and never more so than when I saw you in the 
cemetery and knew who you were.” 

“ Why are you reminding me of all this ? Don’t you 
know how it hurts ? _ I know you despised me then, and 
must despise me now,” Mildred said, with anguish in 
her tones as she, too, rose from her chair and stood 
apart from him. 


434 


Mildred's ambition. 


“I did despise you then, it’s true,” Hugh replied, 
“and tried to think I hated you, not so much for deceiv- 
ing us as for deceiving your husband, as I believed you 
must have done ; but I know better now. Your record 
has not been stainless, Milly, and I would rather have 
you as you were seventeen years ago on the summer 
morning when you were a little girl of thirteen shelling 
peas and prophesying that you would one day be the 
mistress of Thornton Park. You have been its mis- 
tress, and I am sorry for that, but nothing can kill my 
love, which commenced in my boyhood, when you made 
fun of my hands and feet and brogue and called me 
freckled and awkward, and then atoned for it all by 
some look in your bright eyes which said you did not 
mean it. I am awkward still, but the frecks and the 
brogue are gone, and I have come to ask you to be my 
wife, — not to-morrow, but some time next spring, when 
everything is beginning new. Will you, Milly ? I will 
try and make you happy, even if I have but little 
money, 

“Oh, Hugh! What do I care for money. I hate 
it !” 

It was the old Mildred who spoke in the old familiar 
words, which Hugh remembered so well, but it was the 
new Mildred who, when he held his arms towards her, 
saying “ Come,” went gladly into them, as a tired child 
goes to its mother. 

It was late that night when Hugh left his promised 
bride, for there was much to talk about, and all the in- 
cidents of their childhood to be lived over again, Hugh 
telling of the lock of hair and the pea-pod he had kept 
with the peas, hard as bullets now, especially the 
smaller one, which he called Mildred, 


SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 


435 


“ But, do you know, I really think it has recently be- 
gun to change,” Hugh said, “ and I shall not be sur- 
prised to find it soft again ” 

“ Just as I am to let you see how much I love you,” 
Mildred said, as she laid her beautiful head upon his 
arm, and tcld him of the rumor of his engagement to 
Bessie, which had been the means of making her Mrs. 
Thornton. 

“ That was the only secret I had from my husband,” 
she said. “ I told him everything else, and he took me 
knowing it all, and I believe he loved me, too. He 
was very kind to me, — and ” 

She meant to be loyal to her husband, and would 
have said more, if Hugh had not stopped her mouth in 
a most effective way. No man cares to hear the 
woman who has just promised to marry him talk 
about her dead husband, and Hugh was not an excep- 
tion. 

“ Yes, darling, I know,” he said. “ But let’s bury 
the past. You are mine now ; all mine.” 

Hugh might be awkward and shy in many things, 
but he was not at all shy or awkward in love-making 
when once the ice was broken. He had waited for 
Mildred seventeen years, and he meant to make the 
most of her now, and he stayed so long that she at last 
bade him go, and pointed to the clock just striking the 
hour of midnight. 

No one seemed surprised when told of the engage- 
ment. It was what everybody expected, and what 
should have been long ago, and what would have been, 
if Mildred had staid at home, instead of going off to 
Europe. Congratulations came from every quarter and 
none were more sincere than those from the young 


436 


Mildred’s ambition. 


people at the Park, who wanted to make a grand wed- 
ding. To this Hugh did not object, for in his heart was 
the shadow of a wish to see Mildred again as he saw 
her that night at the party in jewels and satins and lace. 
But she vetoed it at once. A widow had no business 
with orange blossoms, she said, and besides that she 
was too old, and Hugh was old, too, and she should be 
married quietly in church, in a plain gray traveling 
dress and bonnet. And she was married thus on a 
lovely morning in June, when the roses were in full 
blootn, and the church was full of flowers, and people, 
too, — for everybody was there to see the bride, who 
went in Mildred Thornton and came out Mildred Mc- 
Gregor. 

And now there is little more to tell. It is three years 
since that wedding day, and Hugh and Mildred live in 
the red farm house, which is scarcely a farm house now, 
it has been so enlarged and changed, with its pointed 
roofs and bow windows and balconies. Brook Cottage 
they call it, and across the brook in the rear there is a 
rustic bridge leading to the meadow, where Mr. Leach’s 
cows used to feed, but which now is a garden, or 
pleasure ground, not so large, but quite as pretty as the 
Park, and every fine afternoon at the hour when Hugh 
is expected from his office, Mildred walks through the 
grounds, leading by the hand a little golden-haired boy, 
whom she calls Charlie for the baby brother who died 
and whom he greatly resembles. And when at last 
Hugh comes, the three go back together, Hugh’s arm 
around Milly’s waist and his boy upon his shoulder. 
They are not rich and never will be, but they are very 
happy in each other’s love, and no shadow, however 
small, ever rests on Milly’s still lovely face, save when 


SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 


437 


she recalls the mad ambition and discontent which 
came so near wrecking her life. 

In the Park three children play, Giles and Fanny, 
who belong to the Thorntons, and a second Mildred 
Leach, who belongs to Tom and Alice. i 

One picture more, and' then we leave them forever 
near the spot where we first saw them. Gerard and 
Bessie, — Alice and Tom, — have come to the cottage at 
the close of a warm July afternoon, and are grouped 
around the door, where Mildred sits, with the sunlight 
falling on her hair, a bunch of sweet peas pinned upon 
her bosom, and the light of a great joy in her eyes as 
she watches Hugh swinging the four children in a 
hammock, and says to Bessie “I never thought I could 
be as happy as I am now. God has been very good to 
me.” 


THE END. 


MRS. MARY J. HOLMES' NOVELS. 


Over a MILLJON Sold. 

As a ~1l«r of domestic stories, which are extremely interesting. Mrs. Mary 
Holmes is Anri vailed. Her characters are t rue to life? quaint, ana admirable. 


Tempest and Sunshine. 
English Orphans. 
Homestead ou the Hillside. 
’Lena Rivers. 

Meadow Brook. 

Dora Deane. 

Cousin Maude. 

Marian Grey. 

Edith Lyle. 

Dr, Hathern’s Daughters. 


Daisy Thornton. 
Chateau D’Or. 

Queenie Hetherton. 
Darkness and Daylight. 
Hugh Worthington. 

Ca tioron Pride. 

Rose Mather. 

Ethelyn’s Mistake. 
Millbank. 

(New.) 


Price $1.50 per Vol. 


Edna Browning. 
West Lawn. 
Mildred. 

Forrest House. 
Madeline. 
Christmas Stories. 
Bessie’s Fortune. 
Gretchen. 
Marguerite. 


AUGUSTA <j. EVANS’ 

MAGNIFICENT NOVELS. 

8eulah, $1.75 Inez, $1.75 Vashti, $2.00 

8t. Elmo, $2.00 Macaria, $1.75 Infelice, $2.00 

At the Mercy of Tiberius ( New ) , $1.00. 

“The author*© style is beautiful, chaste, and elegant. Her ideas are clothed 
in the most fascinating imagery, and her power of delineating character is truly 
remarkable.” 


MARION HARLAN D’S 

SPLENDID NOVELS. 

Alone. Miriam. My Little Love. Helen Gardner. 

Hidden Path. Sunny Bank. Phemie’s Temptation. Husbands and Homes. 

Moss Side. Ruby’s Husband. The Empty Heart. Jessamine. 

Nemesis. At Last. From My Youth Up. True as Steel. 

Price $1.50 per Vol. 

“Marion Harland understands the art of constructing a plot which will gaia 
the attention of the reader at the beginning, and keep un the interest to the las* 
page.” 


MAY AGNES FLEMING’S 


POPULAR NOVELS. 


Silent and True. 

A Wonderful Woman 
A Tei rible 3ecret. 
Norine’s Revenge. 

A Mad Marriage. 

One Night’s Mystery. 


A Changed Heart. 
Pride and Pussion. 
Sharing Her Crime. 

A Wronged Wife. 
Maude Percy’s Secret. 
The Actress’ Daughter, 


Kate Dan ton.' 

Guy Earlscourt’s Wife. 

Heir of Charlton. 

Carried by Storm. 

Lost for a Woman. 

A Wife’s Tragedy. 

The Queen of the Isle. The Midnight Queen. (New.) 

Price $1.5u per Vol. 

“ Mrs. Fleming’s stories are growing more and more popular ever~ lay. Theli 
life-like conversations, flashes of wit, constantly varying scenes nd deeplj 
interesting plots, combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modem 
Novelists.” 

All the books on this list are handsomely printed and bound in cloth, soli 
everywhere, and by mail, postage free, on receipt of price by 

G. W. DILLINGHAM, PUBLISHER, 

***■ 13 West SOd Street, New York. 


JULIE P. SMITH’S NOVELS. 


Widow Goldsmith’s^Daughter $i 50 

Chris and Otho 1 50 

Ten Old Maids 1 50 

Lucy i 5° 

HU '’’'ling Wife 1 50 

JOHN ESTEN COOKE’S WORKS 


The Widower ,...$1 50 

The Married Belle 1 50 

Courting and Farming 50 

Kiss and be Friends 50 

Blossom Bud i jo 


Surry of Eagle's .Neat $1 50 

Fairfax 1 50 

Hilt to Hilt 1 50 

Beatrice Hallam 1 50 

Leather and Silk. 1 50 

Miss Bonnybel 1 50 

Out of the Foam 1 50 


Broken Dreams 
Compensation. 

A Tvristed Skein 


Hammer and Rapier 50 

Mohun 1 50 

Captain Ralph 1 50 

Col. Ross of Piedmont 1 50 

Robert E. Lee 1 

Stonewall Jackson 50 

Her Majesty the Queen , r 50 

CELIA E. GARDNER’S NOVELS. 

Rich Medway $1 50 

A Woman’s Wiles 1 50 

Terrace Roses 1 50 

Seraph — or Mortal? (New) 1 50 


(In verse) 

Do. ...... 


Do 


1 Dn. 




True to the Last $1 50 

A Long Look Ahead 1 50 

The Star and the Clouc 1 50 

I’ve Been Thinking 1 50 

How could He Help It 1 50 

Like and Unlike 1 50 


A. S. ROE’S NOVELS. 


To Love and Be Loved 50 

1 ime and Tide 1 50 

Woman Our Angel 50 

Looking Around 1 50 

The Cloud on the Heart 1 50 

Resolution .... 1 50 

CAPTAIN MAYNE REID’S WORKS. 


The White Chief $1 50 

The Tiger Hunter 1 50 

The Hunter’s Feast. 1 50 

Wild Life x 5 o 

Osceola, the Seminole 1 50 

The Quadroon. 50 

The White Gauntlet 1 50 

Lost Leonore 1 50 


The Scalp Hunters $t 50 

The Rifle Rangers 1 50 

T he War Trail 1 50 

The Wood Rangers , 1 50 

The Wild Huntress 1 50 

The Maroon 1 50 

The Headless Horseman... 1 50 

The Rangers and Regulators 1 50 

POPULAR HAND-BOOKS. 

The HaDits of Good Society — The nice points of taste and good manners $1 00 

The Art of Conversation — For those who wish to be agreeable talkers 1 00 

The Arts of Writing. Reading and Speaking — For Self-Improvement 1 00 

Carelton’s Hand-Book of Popular Quotations 1 50 

1000 Legal Don’ts — By Ingersoll Lockwood 75 

600 Medical Don’ts — By herd. C. Valentine, M.D 75 

Q11 the Chafing Dish — By Harriet P. Bailey 50 

Pole on Whist 1 00 

Draw Poker without a Master 50 

POPULAR NOVELS, COMIC BOOKS, ETC. 

Les Miseiables — Translated from the French. The only complete edition $1 50 

Stephen Lawrence — By Annie Edwardes.. 1 50 

Susan Fielding Do. Do. 

A Woman of Fashion Do. Do. 

Archie Lovell Do. Do. 

Love 

Woman tua remme; — 1 ne .-’cqumo l amour, xjj. i»o. 1 50 

Verdant Green — A racy English college story. With 200 comic illustrations 1 50 

Doctor Antonio — By Ruffini 1 50 

Beatrice Cenci — From the Italian.. 1 50 

Josh Hillings His Complete Writings — With Biography, Steel Portrait, and too 111 . 2 00 
Artemas Ward. Complete Comic Writings — With Biography, Portrait, and 50 111 .. 1 50 
Children’s Fairy Geography — With hundreds of beautiful Illustrations 1 o<i 

All the books on this list are handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold 
everywhere, and by mail, postage free, on receipt of price by 


50 

50 


(L’Amour) — English Translation from Michelet’s famous French work 1 50 

lan (La Femme) — The Sequel to *• L’Amour.” Do. Do. 1 50 




G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, 
33 WEST 23d STREET, NEW YORIC 




G. IV. DILLINGHAM CO.’S. PUBLICATIONS. 


Miscellaneous Works. 
Out of India — Rudyard Kipling.. $i 50 
he King of Alberia- By L. D.. 1 50 
Fort Reno — By Mrs. D. B. Dyer.. 1 00 

Lady Olivia — By Col. Falkner 1 00 

White Rose of Memphis Do... 100 
Red Rose of Savannah — A. S. M 1 00 
The Pink Rose of Mexico. Do. 1 co 
Yellow Rose of New Orleans. “ 100 

It’s a Way Love Has 25 

Zarailla — By Beulah 50 

Florine 50 

Smart Sayings of Children— Paul 1 00 

Crazy History of the U. S. 50 

Rocks and Shoals — Swisher 50 

The Wages of Sin 50 

Idwymon — By Fred’k A. Randle. . 1 50 
The Disagreeable Man — A. S. M. 75 
OurArdstm Spain, etc. — Carleton 1 00 
Dawn to Noon — By Violet Fane. 1 50 
Constance’s Fate. Do . 1 50 
Missing Chord — Lucy Dillingham 1 25 

Ronbar — By R.S. Dement 1 50 

A Manless World — Yourell 75 

Journey to Mars — Pope 1 50 

The Dissolution — Dandelyon. . . . 1 00 

Lion Jack — By P. T. Barnum 1 50 

Jack in the Jungle. Do 150 

Dick Broadnead. 

Red Birds 

Flashes from “Ouida” 1 25 

Private LettersofaFrenchWoroan 75 
Passion’s Dream— W. Boyd Sample 75 
The Arrows of Lo ce — L.Daii trey 75 

Eighty-Seven Kisses — By? 75 

Treasury of Knowledge 1 00 


/ 

Mignonnette— By Sangr^e $1 00 

Jessica — By Mrs. W. H. White. .. . 1 50 

Women of To-day. Do 1 

The Baroness — Joaqain Miller... 1 
One Fair W oman. Do. ... 1 
The Burnhams — Mrs.G E.Stewart 2 
Eugene Ridgewood— Paul James 1 
Braxton’s Bar — R. M. Daggett... 1 
Miss Beck — By Tilbury Holt. . . . 1 

A Wayward Life 1 

Winning Winds — Emerson 1 50 

The Fallen Pillar Saint — Best... 1 2^ 

An Erra -d Girl — Johnson 1 50 1 

Ask Her, Man! Ask Her! 1 50 1 

Hidden Power — T. H. Tibbies 1 50' 

Parson Thorne — E.M. Buckingham 2 50 1 


Errors — By Ruth Carter 1 

The Abbess of Jouarre — Renan., x 
Bulwer’s Letters to His Wife.. 2 
Sense — A serious book. Pomeroy. 1 

Gold Dust Do. 1 

Our Saturday Nights.. Do. 1 

Nonsense — A comic book Do. 1 

Brick Dust. Do. Do. 1 

Home Harmonies. ... Do. 1 

Vesta Vane— By L. King, R 1 

Kimball’s Novels — 6vols. PerVol. 1 


5 °, 


6 


dhead. Do 1 50 Warwick -M. T. Walwo^h 1 50 

Christmas Story, Holmes 1 00 Hotspur Do. 1 50' 


Mrs. Spriggins — Widow Bedott... 25 
Phemie Frost — Ann S. Stephens.. 1 50 
Disagreeable Woman — Starr.... 75 
The Story of a Day in London.. 25 
Lone Ranch — By MayneReid.... 1 50 
The Train Boy — Horatio Alger... , 1 25 

Dan. The Detective — Alger 1 25 

Death Blow to Spiritualism. ... 50 

The Sale of Mrs. Adral — Costello 50 
The W ew Adam and Ev* — Todd. 50 
Bottcn* Facts in Spiritualism.. 1 50 
The MysteryofCentraiPark — Bly 50 
Debatable Land — R. Dale Owen. 2 00 
Threading My Way. Do. . 1 50 
Princess Nourmahal — Geo. Sand 1 50 

Galgano’s Wooing — Stebbins 125 

Stories about Doctors — Jeffreson 1 50 
Stories about Lawyers Do. x 50 
Doctor Antonio — By Ruffini ..... 1 50 
Beatrice Cenci — From the Italian. 1 50 

The Story of Mary 1 50 

Madame— By Frank Lee Benedict 1 50 
A Late Remorse. Dr 1 30 

Hammer and Anvil. g 50 

Her Friend Laurence. Do. 250 

L’Assommoir — Zola’s great nov^. 1 00 


Lulu. 
Stormcbif. 
Delaplainc. 
Bt »erly. 
Zahara. 


Do. 

Do. 

Ej. 

Do. 

Do. 


Th' - *. Darling of an Empire 1 

Cpp Her Wing, or Let Her Soar 1 

Nina’s Peril — By Mrs. Miller 1 

Marguerite’s Journal — For Girls. 1 
Orpheus C. Kerr — Four vols. in one 2 oc 1 
Pertect Gentleman — Lockwood... 1 25] 
Purple and Fine Linen — Fawcett 1 50 
Pauline’s Trial — L. D. Courtney. . 1 50 1 

Tancredi — Dr. E. A. Wood 1 50^ 

Measure for Measure — Stanley.. 1 50 

A Marvelous Coincidence 50 

Two Men of the World — Bates. 50 
A God of Gotham — Bascom...... 5c 

Congressman John — MacCarthy 50 
So Huns the World Away.... . . 50 

Birds of a Feather — Sothern... ,. 1 50 
Every Man His Own Doctor. . . 200 

Professional Criminals — Byrnes 5 co 
Heart Hungry.Mrs.Westmoreland 1 50 
Clifford Troupe. Do. 50I 

Price of a Life — R. F. Sturgis.... 1 50', 

Marston Hall— L. Ella Byrd 1 50! 

Conquered — By a New Author. .. . x 50; 
Talcs from the Popular Operas 1 50 

The Fall of Kilman Kon 1 50 

San Miniato — Mrs. C.V. Hamilton 50 
Ait for Her — A Tale of New York 1 50I 







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